Analyze This
by peroxidepest17
Summary: My sad attempt at humor... the boys get analyzed.
1. One Word That Describes...

Title: Analyze This   
Author: Celeste   
Rating: PG   
Main Characters: (Seven)   
Genre: Humor (Yes, lame in some parts but hey, what can I do?)   
Universe: (ATF/AU)   
Summary: Team 7 is dissected… or does the dissecting, whichever way you want to look   
at it…   
Feedback: (yes!) keviesprincess@netscape.net   
Disclaimer: The boys aren't mine. *Sigh* I like to pretend they are sometimes. But then   
again, I've always had an overactive imagination. The ATF Universe isn't my creation   
either, and I'd like to take the chance and thank Mog for letting the rest of us play in her   
world. ? I created Dr. Preston, but he's boring, so I don't think it matters that much. As   
for the title, I apologize to the movie, but I really couldn't think of anything original.   
LOL   
Author's Notes: Thanks to Ker, and Skye (and the rest of LA) for looking at this in   
advance to tell me if it sucked or not. *G* They all pass the "inflating Celeste's ego" test.   
Thanks so much ladies!!! As for the rest of this monster, we'll see if my muse gets   
inspired to write the rest. :P This is just trial, I suppose…   
Distribution: Ask and ye shall receive.   
Dedication: This is for Greta and Laura, cause they can ALWAYS get me to laugh.   
They're completely ridiculous, and I love them for it!!   
  
  
  
**(From the Notes of Dr. Samuel F. Preston)   
  
  
The ATF and one, AD Orin Travis, have both graciously convinced the United States   
Government to fund a project in which the bureau's top three teams in the nation are to   
be studied and analyzed. I have been assigned to oversee this project. Our goal is to   
dissect the dynamics of each team and their individual members to see if we can   
determine the reason for their superiority. If successful, our data will be used as a basis   
on which future government teams will be developed for maximum potential.   
  
From April 5th-April 10th, 2001, I met with the third leading team in the nation, headed by   
Daniel Freemond in Washington D.C. in my office. In their team I saw a militaristic   
sense of professionalism and respect as well as high regard for personal honor. Each   
individual was tuned finely to obey their particular morals and ethics as well as respect   
the methods and authority of their superiors.   
  
On May 20th-May 25th, 2001, I had my session here in Denver with the second most   
successful team in the ATF, lead by Jason Lieu in San Francisco, California. In his team   
I noted many similarities with Mister Freemond's team. Personal honor and   
professionalism were of the utmost importance. Each individual was 100% serious about   
their jobs and in their relationships to one another. When I met with them, they were   
courteous and respectful to me and to each other.   
  
Today, on June 18th, 2001, I begin my five-day study of the number one ranked team in   
the entire nation, headed by Chris Larabee in Denver, Colorado. I am very excited about   
this particular interview, as I have seen the team's record. Their success rate is almost as   
high as the previous teams' records combined. If their characteristics are consistent with   
my previous findings, I believe we will be successful in acquiring our "formula" for the   
perfect team. The session with these remarkable men is to begin in 15 minutes. I look   
forward to talking with and dissecting these extraordinary individuals. Before we begin, I   
would like to once again, thank the ATF and AD Travis for this rare opportunity to study   
such complex subjects and at the same time, perform a great service to my country. **   
  
  
  
Part One: Single Word Associations   
  
**9:30 AM, Mon., June 18th, 2001   
  
(From the notes of Dr. Samuel F. Preston)   
  
  
Agent Larabee's team has arrived, slightly late for their session, but ready to begin. I   
suggested that we start with the one on one interviews first so that I may get a feel for my   
subjects, but they all seemed rather uncomfortable at that. Actually, Mister Wilmington's   
exact words were, ""Are you nuts?" They obviously draw confidence, and a certain   
degree of comfort, from being in close proximity to one another in a foreign environment.   
I find that I get more answers if my subjects are comfortable from the very beginning, so I   
suggested we do a group activity to start off with.   
  
The single word association game is a wonderful exercise in defining an individual's   
relationship with another, and fun at that. The rules are simple, we are to single out one   
person from the group and have everyone else state one, and only one, word that they   
think best describes that person. This will get them to share their feelings with one   
another and give them a chance to speak honestly to one another without digging too   
deep. Hopefully, they will enjoy this exercise and open up as we begin to delve into   
deeper issues later on. Let the study begin!!! **   
  
  
One Word That Describes Chris   
  
  
Vin looked around the room. "Uh… just one?" he asked after a period of silence amongst   
those present.   
  
The psychologist nodded. "Just one, nothing more. Now, why don't we go clockwise   
from Mister Wilmington? I have it here that he has known Mister Larabee the longest,"   
the man smiled from under his glasses as he spoke, and motioned to a statement on his   
clipboard with the eraser of his pencil.   
  
Buck eased back in his armchair gingerly, as if thinking the wrong thing about his   
volatile friend could physically hurt him. In many ways, it probably would.   
"Well…Chris… Chris is…" He paused to think a little longer, his voice trailing off   
thoughtfully. "…ornery," he finished after a minute or so, very proud of his answer.   
  
The other five groaned. "Damn it Buck, you took mine," JD groused the older man, as he   
glared at him.   
  
"Mine too."   
  
"Me too."   
  
"That was mine first."   
  
"I'm quite certain it was mine long before it was yours, Mister Tanner."   
  
Chris glared at them all, effectively shutting them up about their damn 'ornery'   
comments. He was not ornery. He glared harder to prove it. The psychologist took a hasty   
note, eyes never leaving his fascinating subjects. They were a psychologists dream, so   
far. "Um, Mister Sanchez, please continue. One word that describes Mister Larabee."   
  
Josiah steepled his large hands and leaned back in the armchair, crossing his legs at the   
ankles. He was silent for several moments. The psychologist looked at him, pausing in   
his mad scribbling at the sudden quiet. "Mister Sanchez?" he prompted, urging the older   
man with several hand gestures.   
  
"Obstinate."   
  
Vin's furrowed his brow, trying to dissect the new word and add it to his ever-growing   
vocabulary. After a second, the tracker's eyebrow's jumped with surprise. "What? Josiah,   
you sayin' Chris keeps from doin'…"   
  
Ezra sighed. "Not 'abstinent,' Mister Tanner, 'obstinate'." Vin just looked confused.   
"Obstinate means stubborn, Vin," the southerner explained patiently.   
  
Understanding dawned on the tracker, and he suddenly burst out laughing.   
  
"What's so funny?" JD inquired before he could stop himself.   
  
Vin guffawed a second longer before fighting for breath so he could speak in-between   
chuckles. "I knew…I knew… Chris weren't gettin' any… but it surprised the hell outta   
me… a second ago… when I thought it was by…by… choice!!!! Whew!!" He laughed   
harder.   
  
Buck snorted, laughing deeply himself. "Hell, Vin… you don't need a damn shrink to   
prove you're messed up. We just gotta listen to where that mind of yours takes us!"   
  
The others joined in laughing, except for Chris, who's glare caused the psychiatrist to   
look in the opposite direction completely, taking his notepad and his pencil with him.   
"Enough!!" the team supervisor growled. "I'm not ornery, an' I'm not abstinent OR   
obstinate."   
  
"Um, yes, we really should continue. Mister Jackson, why don't you go next?"   
  
Nate bit his bottom lip to keep from laughing again about Vin's comment on Chris's   
private life. He wanted to continue, and get their little session over with as soon as   
possible. "He's, well, he's protective." He cringed after he said it, because he knew what   
was coming next.   
  
"Ain't that right now, Papa Bear?" Buck nudged Chris beside him, who shot a look of   
death at his older friend for using the much-hated nickname outside the office. Vin and   
Ezra made growling animal noises to articulate, both safely on the other side of the circle,   
away from Chris's immediate reach, unlike Buck. The lady's man grunted when Chris   
smacked him.   
  
The psychologist, intrigued by the peculiar nickname, wrote it down hastily and circled it   
at the top of the paper, for further research. Everyone read Chris's **'I'll get you all for   
this'** look, but chose to ignore it. "Ah, Mister Standish, would you please go next?"   
The undercover agent pulled out his deck of cards and began to shuffle it absently as he   
pondered the question, or rather, if it was worth answering truthfully, knowing he could   
possibly die very shortly after. Ezra didn't have to think long about it. He grinned his   
Cheshire grin and pulled another ace out of his mental sleeve. "Mister Larabee is quite,   
irascible."   
  
There was complete silence. Chris furrowed his brow. "What? What the hell does   
**THAT** mean?"   
  
Ezra shrugged. "I think it would be a bit unfair if I had to explain myself when everyone   
else was allowed to follow the "one word and one word only rule," don't you agree,   
Mister Preston?" Standish turned and looked at the psychologist expectantly.   
  
The man with the glasses pondered the question for a moment, tapping his pencil eraser   
against his chin as he thought. The psychiatrist had no idea he had been analyzed by the   
cunning undercover agent, and found lacking. Ezra knew exactly how the man was going   
to answer. "Yes, I suppose it would be unfair. But, please, in the future, use words you   
think your teammates and I will be able to understand Mister Standish. This is a group   
effort, after all." He smiled brightly after finishing his statement. Chris wondered how   
Dr. Preston would look with a black eye and perhaps, some missing teeth. As far as   
Larabee was concerned, the he was definitely in now way, 'irascible,' or whatever.   
Taking a pen out of his pocket, Chris hastily wrote the word, spelling it phonetically, on   
the back of his hand. He'd look it up later, and then he'd make Standish pay for whatever   
it was that the man had said.   
  
"Mister Tanner, would you like to go next?"   
  
"Hell no, but I suppose I ain't got a choice now do I, Doc?"   
  
"Well, I suppose not, under the circumstances… but uh…we can always skip you and   
come back later, if you're feeling uncomfortable right now."   
  
"Uh yeah. I'm uncomfortable. Go on and describe Chris first, JD… I'll think of   
somethin'…eventually."   
  
Ezra grinned, proud. Yes, he'd taught Vin how to do that convincingly, or so he liked to   
think.   
  
JD shot Vin a dirty look, "But, Doc, he's just foolin' with ya! Vin ain't really   
uncomfortable," the youngest tried to stall, but the doctor would have none of that.   
  
"C'mon now young man, the Judge told me you'd be the least reluctant to express   
yourself emotionally."   
  
JD's nose wrinkled before he could stop it. Did the man just say what he think he said?   
Emotional expression? The thought made the kid cringe physically in his chair. Why did   
everyone always think he was the emotionally weak one? Dunne sighed. It was the hair,   
wasn't it? That was it. That had been the final straw. The moment they got out of here, he   
was going to get a haircut, preferably something army style.   
  
"Son, are you gonna say somethin' or you gonna jest sit there movin' your eyebrows   
back'n forth all day?" Buck prompted smugly, knowing what was going on in his   
roommate's head. His tone promised teasing for it later, **'emotion expression'** and   
all.   
  
JD took the time to glare at Buck, absently rubbing his left brow with his hand as he did   
so. The youngest then returned his attention to the exercise at hand. He searched for   
something inoffensive to say. "Chris is… well, Chris is…" JD panicked, looking at the   
already murderous expression in his boss's eyes. Maybe if Buck hadn't made that 'Papa   
Bear' comment earlier JD would have been okay, but the Team 7 leader was all worked   
up now. "Chris is… old?" JD said the first thing that he could think of that might not be   
as bad as he thought. The youngster realized his mistake the moment the word left his   
mouth. His eyes threatened to bulge out of his head as began squirming, looking for   
something to say that might explain his comment. "I mean… not old… um… well, not in   
an **old** old way, but in a normal, old…er, wise way? Like experience and   
wisdom…and stuff?" he finished the statement off with a question, making it sound weak   
and frightened, which, not surprisingly, was exactly how he felt right about now. "Um…   
you look great for your age Chris."   
  
The others all covered their faces with their hands and groaned into them. The vein in   
Chris's forehead started to throb. "Now Mister Dunne, only one word. Old it is," the   
psychiatrist chastised, before writing down what JD had said.   
  
Dunne shrunk in his chair and tried to seem very small and innocent. He was naïve;   
maybe Chris would still buy that. JD Dunne was still young and naïve. Chancing a glance   
at Chris, JD knew he was dead, youthful innocence be damned. Larabee would go on a   
murderous rampage. JD knew this because, now, there was a certain calm in Chris's   
expression. The kind of relaxed look the blonde man tended to get right after he justified   
killing someone, in his mind.   
  
"Now… Mister Tanner, we're back to you. Do you think you're ready to go?"   
  
Vin was still reluctant, especially after JD's fubble, but by the way Preston was looking   
at him, the sniper knew he wouldn't be able to stall more than he already had. He   
wondered if he should say something nice about Chris and save his hide. Of course, nice   
and Chris weren't words he would normally associate with each other, but he still liked   
the man all the same. He looked at Chris from the corner of his eye. He could escape   
death right now, or he could join the ranks of the doomed as a marked man. Vin looked at   
them and checked them off mentally. Buck was a goner. Ezra was as well, once Chris   
figured out whatever it was that he had said. JD was definitely dead, and Josiah was,   
maybe. Nate seemed to be the only one that was safe from Larabee's wrath. Tanner   
chuckled to himself. One of them surviving was good enough odds for him. He slouched   
comfortably in his chair and sipped his water once before looking at Dr. Preston. "Slow."   
  
Everyone looked up at the word, stunned by Tanner's boldness. Was he attempting   
suicide by provocation? It was definitely possible, and that had definitely been the way to   
go about it.   
  
"On the draw, that is," Vin described lazily, knowing the comment had confused the   
doctor. "Not the stupid kinda slow or anything." Preston nodded, realizing what Vin was   
saying, and wrote a note in his leather-bound journal.   
  
Everyone immediately forgot JD's 'old' comment when they heard that one. They all   
stared at Vin incredulously. "Slow draw? Why exactly, do you say that, Mister Tanner?"   
Ezra asked, decidedly uncomfortable with what he was learning about his friends during   
this little session. He had had no idea that Vin Tanner was openly suicidal.   
  
"Guess cuz it's gotta do with that 'old' thing JD was talkin' bout," Vin shrugged   
nonchalantly, though his eyes gleamed mischief, and a dare, to the others. He was never   
one to be cowardly, nor was he ever one to pass up the chance to tease his best friend in   
front of strangers.   
  
Chris's eyebrow twitched as he smiled a predatory smile in return to Vin's daring grin.   
The leader subconsciously drew back his jacket, revealing his empty holster. He would   
show Vin **'slow draw'** back at the office, the second he got his firearm back on.   
  
  
One Word That Describes Buck   
  
"Now, let's go around the circle again, and this time, everyone tell me one word that   
describes Mister Wilmington."   
  
Buck grinned broadly. "Hope you fellas know lots of synonyms for charming, daring,   
handsome, and smart," the scoundrel announced boisterously.   
  
JD rolled his eyes. "Synonyms mean the same thing, Buck."   
  
"I know that, kid," Buck retorted resentfully.   
  
"Well then ya shoulda said antonyms," JD snorted.   
  
Buck looked at Vin expectantly. Sighing at the indignation of it all, the tracker reached   
over and cuffed the kid on the back of the head because Wilmington couldn't reach that   
far.   
  
"Hey!!" JD yelped, his hands flying to his head protectively as he glared at Vin. "What   
the hell was that for?"   
  
Vin shrugged and pointed at Buck. "Callin' in a favor kid. Tweren't nothin' personal."   
  
"Sure it wasn't," JD responded before pulling the bill lower on his baseball cap so it   
covered his eyes. "Bullies."   
  
Fascinated, the psychologist paused to write down some more notes regarding that   
peculiar byplay between Vin, Buck and JD before moving on. "Mister Sanchez, please   
start the exercise."   
  
Uncomplaining, Josiah tilted his head slightly to the left and quirked an eye heavenward   
as he thought. "Well, Brother Buck is… loud."   
  
Buck's moustache twitched comically at the comment. "Loud? What the hell does that   
mean, Josiah!?" the scoundrel grunted, taking slight offense at the comment. Beside him,   
Chris cleaned out his ear, having to sit next to Buck as the man raved about how 'quiet'   
he was. "That really the best ya could come up with?" Chris cringed at the noise level. "I   
saw that. Very funny, pard," Wilmington grumbled, having seen Chris's action and small   
smile at his expense. "I'm glad this is so amusin'," the lady's man huffed.   
  
The rest of the others chortled. "Relax Mister Wilmington, you've already proven Mister   
Sanchez's point," Ezra drawled wickedly, though he didn't look up from his cards.   
  
Buck glared at the gambler before indicating to Vin with a tilt of his chin. Sighing, Vin   
reached over and unceremoniously smacked Ezra upside the head. Ezra's head shot up,   
and he looked at Vin, bewildered. "Mister Tanner, did you just…" he was too surprised   
to finish the question.   
  
Vin shrugged. "Lost a bet. Tweren't nothin' personal."   
  
Ezra glared at Buck instead of Vin, and indicated to Chris with his eyes. Chris sighed,   
reached over, and smacked Buck hard upside the head. Wilmington yelped. "Ow! Damn   
it, Chris, what the fuck was that for?!"   
  
Chris glared at Ezra. "Lost a bet. Wasn't anything personal," he explained wearily.   
  
Doctor Preston wrote down a series of notes involving physical retaliation and possible   
intense psychological trauma during the early youth. "Um, boys, can we please keep   
going? Mister Jackson?"   
  
Nathan looked at Buck, and decided he was far enough from Vin that he wouldn't get   
smacked upside the head if push came to shove. "Well, he can be…lewd."   
  
"Whatever happened to just plain, 'romantic'?" Buck whined, glaring out from under a   
bushy brow at the ex-medic. Nathan shrugged helplessly.   
  
"Now Mister Wilmington, I distinctly remember a comment you made about havin' your   
mouth meet Inez's. How very romantic," Ezra drawled, sarcasm oozing from every word.   
  
Buck looked shocked. "She told you 'bout that, huh?"   
  
"Yes."   
  
"I ain't lewd."   
  
"Lewd was putting it mildly." Wilmington growled before he looked at Vin. Tanner   
returned Buck's stare irritably, but went ahead and smacked Ezra once again. This time   
Ezra smacked him back, equally as annoyed with Tanner as he was with Wilmington.   
  
"Hey! I said it tweren't nothin' personal!!" Vin yelped, rubbing his head sorely.   
  
Ezra smiled. "That wasn't anything personal either, Mister Tanner."   
  
"Oh. Well, just so we're clear, Ez."   
  
"I merely gave it to you for safekeeping. Please pass it along to Mister Wilmington when   
you get the chance."   
  
"Sure thing."   
  
The psychologist jotted down another note about Standish's uncanny ability to verbally   
placate, and Tanner's occasional "off the wall-ness," for lack of a better word. "All right,   
um… Mister Standish, would you care to go next?"   
  
"Libidinous," Ezra stated without missing a beat.   
  
"What in the hell does that…"   
  
"I thought we specified a rule, Mister Standish. Please try to use words everyone can   
understand."   
  
"Now, Doctor Preston, is it really my fault if I made an assumption that was incorrect? I   
truly believed they all knew the meaning of the word. I can't possibly be blamed for my   
optimism."   
  
"No, I suppose you can't be blamed for that," the psychologist replied, though he had a   
distinct feeling he was being played. Standish however, looked completely innocent.   
Usually, the doctor could discern foul play from his patients through body language and   
facial expressions, but there was nothing he could see that told him Ezra was pulling a   
fast one on him. He shrugged mentally and wrote himself another note under Ezra's   
name.   
  
"Snake," Buck grumbled. The scoundrel pulled a pen out of his pants pocket and a   
wadded up piece of paper. He hastily scribbled the word 'libidinous' on it, taking care to   
spell it as best he could. That damn southerner would get his, later.   
  
"All right, Mister Tanner, would you go next?"   
  
Vin crinkled his nose slightly at the thought, but didn't stall this time. "Cheater."   
  
Wilmington's jaw dropped. "WHAT? Now, you **KNOW** I won that bet fair and   
square, Junior!!!"   
  
"Don't know it fer certain," Tanner drawled back, still stinging after the loss.   
  
"Now c'mon boy, you were the one that bet on the 'Sixers! That was you cheatin'   
yourself, not me cheatin' ya."   
  
Vin grew indignant. "But, I only made that bet after ya kept remindin' me bout Shaq's   
free throws!!"   
  
"I also said the damn man was more'n 7 feet tall!!" Buck fired back in his defense.   
  
"Still don't count," Vin responded evenly.   
  
Buck looked at Vin expectantly after a minute. Tanner almost exploded. "You can't be   
serious, Bucklin!!!"   
  
"Oh, I'm dead serious, Junior."   
  
Vin glared daggers at the older man, before remembering that his word was an important   
part of who he was. He reached around himself with his right hand, rather precariously,   
and somehow managed to smack himself in the head.   
  
"That was undignified."   
  
"Ezra, shut up."   
  
"Gentlemen please, this is taking much longer than necessary. Mister Dunne, please go   
next."   
  
"About Buck? Buck's just plain overprotective."   
  
Chris and Ezra started to make clucking noises from their seats at JD's unintentional cue.   
Vin joined the two, grinning broadly the entire time. Josiah and Nathan shook their heads   
but couldn't quite subdue their smiles. JD looked u p at the ceiling, trying to avoid   
Buck's glare. Though Wilmington's was not as potent as Larabee's, it was still slightly   
unnerving at times. Ezra, Vin, and Chris however, continued with the chicken sounds.   
Buck could not fathom slapping Chris upside the head; so instead, he turned to Vin and   
nodded for the umpteenth time that day. Sighing dramatically at the unspoken   
instructions, the young tracker whapped himself on the head, once again.   
  
"Uh, I meant Ez there, Junior, but I guess that works too." Buck decided that was revenge   
enough, for now.   
  
"Gentlemen! Please! We need to move on!! Mister Larabee, go next."   
  
"Buck? Ole Buck's horny, plain and simple."   
  
Everyone waited for Buck to get indignant. When nothing came they all looked at Chris's   
oldest friend inquisitively. "What? It's true, ain't it?" the scoundrel admitted, shrugging   
noncommittally.   
  
"Let me get this straight. Mister Larabee gets away with, 'horny' while I am in dire   
straights on your list for, 'libidinous'?"   
  
"Ha!! I **KNEW** it had something to do with that!!" Wilmington pointed an   
accusatory finger at Ezra.   
  
"I said nothing of the sort. I was merely using an example, I…"   
Buck looked at Vin before Ezra could slither out of the hole he had put himself in.   
  
*SMACK*   
  
"Mister Tanner, please!!!" *SMACK*   
  
"OW!! Hell, Ez! I already told ya, it weren't nuthin' personal!!!!" *SMACK*   
  
"Goddamn it! Then what exactly, was that last one for, Vin?! *SMACK*   
  
"That one was just fer bein' an ass!" *SMACK*   
  
"Well then, I return in like!!" *SMACK* "Infact, I return the favor DOUBLY!"   
*SMACK*   
  
Dr. Preston wrote some more notes on his disturbing finds.   
  
*SMACK*   
  
  
One Word That Describes Josiah   
  
"Mister Sanchez, would you like to go next?" Doctor Preston asked once Vin and Ezra   
had been settled and told they were not to hit each other out of spite for the duration of   
the session.   
  
"You really want me to answer that question, doc?" the preacher's son asked, seriously.   
  
"Um…no. Please begin the exercise if you would, Mister Jackson."   
  
"Well this is easy. Josiah's steady."   
  
"Thank you, brother Nate."   
  
"What'dya mean steady? You don't remember that brawl last week in the bar?" Buck   
questioned, unbelieving of what Nathan was saying. "Lemme tell ya doc, he ain't as   
steady as he looks. One minute ole Josiah here was sittin' sippin' his beer, then Parson   
came over and made some comment 'bout his mama jokingly, 'n the next, Parson's layin'   
unconscious in the middle of the street an' The Saloon's window is broke."   
  
"Well, well, it looks like someone is attempting to undermine the others' positive   
qualities to make himself feel better about his own, previous round, tsk tsk."   
  
"Fuck you, Ezra."   
  
"I'm afraid I must decline your offer, Mister Wilmington, as my interests obviously don't   
coincide with yours…"   
  
"Vin, if ya'd be so kind."   
  
*SMACK*   
  
"Mister Tanner! Is that really absolutely necessary?!"   
  
"Ain't nothin' personal Ezra."   
  
"So you keep saying."   
  
"Well maybe if you'd keep your damn fool mouth shut!" Buck stated, looking directly at   
Ezra.   
  
"Mister Larabee, if **you** would be so kind?"   
  
*SMACK*   
  
"Ow!!! Damn it Chris! I don't believe you're takin' orders from that lil weasel!"   
  
"And I don't believe Vin's takin' shit from an old skirt chaser like you. Besides, it wasn't   
anything personal," Chris responded after having smacked his oldest friend good.   
  
"So ya keep tellin' me." Buck rubbed his head.   
  
"Okay, I admit, it IS sort of fun."   
  
"I **KNEW** it!"   
  
"**GENTLEMEN**!!!" Preston was beginning to lose his patience, and the slight rise in   
pitch and volume in his voice showed it. "Mister Standish, please go."   
  
"Ursine."   
  
The psychologist was growing annoyed with Ezra's little game. "Mister Standish."   
  
"Capacious."   
  
"**Mister** Standish…"   
  
"Adamantine."   
  
"**MISTER STANDISH.**"   
  
"Pietistic."   
  
"**MISTER STANDISH!**"   
  
"Perspicuous."   
  
"Please, **MISTER STANDISH**! You know the rules!!"   
  
Ezra sighed. "Josiah sho' is smart," the gambler drawled, with an exaggerated hillbilly   
accent. After a second, he wrinkled his nose. "That was utterly degrading Mister Preston.   
For a psychologist, I find your vocabulary extensively lacking. I recommend a good   
Oxford Thesaurus and the Wall Street Journal."   
  
Preston tried to ignore him. "I didn't say MY vocabulary was lacking per say, Mister   
Standish…"   
  
"Then you're quite obviously undermining the intelligence of my teammates. I take great   
offense at that conjecture."   
  
"I was just assuming that they didn't understand what you were saying to them," Preston   
explained, almost contrite at his outburst at Ezra. Almost.   
  
"Mister Sanchez, what does 'ursine' mean?" Ezra asked, expectantly.   
  
"I do believe it means bear like, Brother Ezra."   
  
"And Pietistic?"   
  
"Religious."   
  
"Capacious?"   
  
"Large."   
  
"Adamantine?"   
  
"Strong."   
  
"Perspicuous?"   
  
"Intelligent."   
  
"Thank you." Ezra leaned back in his chair, looking at the doctor expectantly, after   
proving his point.   
  
Preston sighed. "I apologize for jumping to conclusions, Mister Standish."   
  
"And I trust it won't happen in the future?" Ezra asked, as if he had finished scolding a   
mischievous child.   
  
"Yes, of course."   
  
"Good. You may resume, doctor."   
  
"Thank you, Mister Standish.   
  
"You're very welcome." Ezra couldn't quite keep the smug tone from his voice at the last   
statement, and the psychiatrist suddenly felt very suspicious. Had his patient just… no…   
HE was the psychologist, after all, wasn't he?   
  
"Er… let's continue then. Mister Tanner, please describe Mister Sanchez."   
  
"Capacious."   
  
"Um, Mister Tanner, I think your teammate already used that one."   
  
"No he didn't. Last one he used was Perspicuous. Josiah said that meant intelligent. So I   
went the other way'n I say he's capacious. That means large. Ezra didn't say that."   
  
Preston was tempted to throttle both Tanner and Standish at this point, but he reminded   
himself that he was a professional, and that this, was only a slight setback. Instead, he   
attempted to dissect the validity of Vin's statement. It was true, Standish had settled for   
Perspicuous in the end, and the psychoanalyst didn't really feel like coming under the   
team's scrutiny for assuming Tanner hadn't had the slightest idea what capacious had   
meant at the beginning of the conversation. He sighed. "All right then. Mister Dunne?"   
  
"Ursine."   
  
"Mister Dunne… oh, never mind. Mister Larabee?"   
  
"Adamantine."   
  
Preston sighed and wrote three or four nasty notes on the side of his pad, to calm himself   
down a bit. "Mister Wilmington, your turn."   
  
"Ornery."   
  
"You already said that for Mister Larabee."   
  
"But, you said we couldn't repeat each other."   
  
"Yes, I did."   
  
"I was repeating myself."   
  
Preston growled. "All right! Here are the rules gentlemen! No repeating each other. No   
repeating yourselves. No using words that no one else understands. No splicing words   
together. Are we clear?"   
  
"Doctor Preston, please get a hold of yourself. A man in your position should always be   
in possession of his faculties. I find it utterly repulsive that someone of your extensive   
training loses control so easily."   
  
"I apologize for that Mister Standish but…" Preston stopped halfway through his apology   
and gave Ezra an irate look. "May we continue?"   
  
"My teammates and I would be happy to oblige, once you've collected yourself."   
  
"Thank you…" he stopped again. "Mister Standish, must you always play mind games?"   
he asked, exasperated.   
  
"Verbally attacking my character is rather childish for a man of your education, don't you   
think, Doctor?"   
  
The psychologist sighed, and decided to ignore Standish's attempt to undermine his   
authority. "All right. Moving on…"   
  
  
One Word That Describes Nathan   
  
  
"…Mister Jackson, it's your turn. Mister Standish, please begin."   
  
Nathan groaned inwardly, one half expecting Ezra to use another one of his outlandish   
words and the other half expecting him to break a different rule completely. He wasn't   
disappointed, as usual.   
  
"Holier-than-thou," Ezra replied with a smirk.   
  
"Now Ezra, I thought ya couldn't put a whole buncha words together," Vin warned,   
looking from the undercover agent to the psychiatrist.   
  
"Oh no, that was a fine answer, Mister Tanner."   
  
Vin wrinkled a brow. "Well I'm confused. First off, ya'll say we can't splice words   
together. You made a big show about how we can't do this, can't say that, can't try this,   
and puttin' words together was part of that list. Then Ezra goes and breaks the rule, but   
you say that's all right. What kind of loony are you?" Tanner demanded of Preston.   
  
"Well in this case the splicing was correct because…"   
"Wait, wait, wait, so… we **can** do that?"   
  
"No, Mister Tanner, I don't think you understand this concept altogether. You see…"   
  
"Wait a second now, Dr. Preston… are you suggesting that Vin is stupid?" Ezra asked,   
with every ounce of indignance he could muster. Chris glared at the doctor for emphasis,   
doing very well to hide his grin.   
  
The doctor panicked at Ezra's accusation. "NO! No, of course not. Mister Tanner's   
question merely implied that he didn't understand the concept."   
  
"I believe that's incorrect, Doctor. Mister Tanner obviously asked about the rules, not   
the concept in general. I feel that making an assumption about whether or not he has the   
capability to grasp a certain 'concept' is demeaning and rude. You should apologize to   
my teammate immediately."   
  
"But, Mister Standish, he had no idea that the term you used was commonplace."   
  
Ezra sighed. "Again with the assumptions Doctor, really. I would think such a thing was   
below someone of your position. Mister Tanner specifically stated that you had   
mentioned we weren't to put words together in any form for our answers. He did not in   
anyway ask you to explain the concept of my answer to him because he did not   
understand it. Nor did he question the fact that my answer might be "commonplace". He   
stated quite clearly, that you had stated that all words of that NATURE were not to be put   
into use in the exercise. However, retracted your rule a moment later and then criticized   
Vin's intelligence for questioning you on it. Not only are you insulting him, but you are   
also being a hypocrite, and I will not tolerate that sort of treatment towards my friends or   
me. I demand an apology." Ezra sat back and crossed his arms, looking as flippant and   
indignant as ever.   
  
Preston sighed. There was perhaps, a **hint** of truth in Standish's accusation. The   
psychologist leaned back in his chair and looked straight at Vin.   
  
Vin smiled, like he hadn't caught Ezra's tirade in the first place. "Sure, Doc. It's fine."   
  
"Now, can we please get on with the exercise?"   
  
"Of course," Ezra replied amiably, as if he hadn't gone on a ten-minute speech criticizing   
the Doctor's methods.   
  
"Mister Tanner?"   
  
"On Nate? Er…Nate's…touchy."   
  
"Physically?"   
  
"What other kinda touchy is there?" Vin shrugged. Nathan looked wounded, but he could   
hardly deny the fact that it was true.   
  
"I know I'm going back on my own rules again, but I just don't know enough about you   
gentlemen to decipher that sort of response. What do you mean by 'touchy'?"   
  
Vin cringed. "Aw hell, you're gonna make me talk and ya didn't make any one else do   
none. That ain't fair. Can't I just change my answer?"   
  
"I promise it's not to just ridicule you, Mister Tanner. I simply want to know what you   
mean by that. If I were to describe you in a word that was French per say, it would still be   
one word but no one would understand it's meaning."   
  
"Again with the assumptions Doctor. I speak French fluently."   
  
"It was an example, Mister Standish."   
  
"I'm sure it was."   
  
"Are you undermining my integrity?"   
  
"I agreed with you, didn't I?"   
  
"Well yes, but your tone implied something rather sarcastic."   
  
"Your own implications and accusations are only serving to offend me, doctor. I was very   
well, agreeing with you. I suggest that in the future, you keep such insulting thoughts to   
yourself, as they are obviously not constructive in any way to our working relationship."   
  
"Yes, I think that would be for the best. If we all could work on improving our   
relationship, that is."   
  
"Now doc, you tryin' to tell us something?"   
  
Preston blinked owlishly. "I thought I did tell you something, Mister Wilmington."   
  
"Oh, I see," Buck winked. "Sorry doc, but for the most part I know these guys don't   
swing that way. Ain't real professional of ya to ask any of us to have a relationship with   
ya in the middle of a session, either."   
  
"What? No! No, I wasn't alluding to **THAT** form of relationship, Mister   
Wilmington."   
  
"Sure ya were, doc."   
  
"No! I have no interest in any of you gentlemen in that manner; let's get that out right   
away. Now please, we have to continue. What sort of 'touchy' did you mean, Mister   
Tanner?"   
  
Vin reached over and poked the psychiatrist in the ribs. "**That** kinda touchy."   
  
"He physically assaults you?"   
  
Vin looked incredulous. "I barely touched you! I mean that Nate's always pokin' and   
proddin' at ya when you're hurt, 's all."   
  
"It's his job," Preston stated, brows furrowed as he tried to decipher the hidden message   
from Vin's inner psyche at his words.   
  
"Yeah, and it describes him. That's what ya told us to do. Nate's touchy."   
  
Preston sighed and wrote down more notes. "Fine, fine…whatever you say. I suppose   
**YOU'D** be the expert."   
  
"That is what you instructed us to do. You never said that we were to specifically   
describe anything emotional, and I for one, don't find your sarcasm endearing, doctor."   
  
The psychologist looked at Standish, and realized, as much as it pained him to do so, that   
the undercover agent was right. He was the doctor damn it, and **he** was the one that   
was supposed to be in control of the situation, not getting snippy and defensive with some   
bad results. He tried to be chipper. "Mister Dunne, your turn."   
  
"Nathan's threatening."   
  
"In an imposing sense?"   
  
"In the sense that he threatens you."   
  
"He actually…threatens you with physical harm?"   
  
"Yeah, all the time," JD said, waving a hand dismissively. Nathan groaned and leaned   
back into his chair heavily, eyes trained heavenward.   
  
"What sort of threats, exactly?"   
  
"Ah, you know, his aren't as bad as Chris or Buck's, but he did threaten to hog tie me to   
the hospital bed and make the staff feed me lima beans all week."   
  
All of Team 7 made a face at that. Those damn hospital lima beans. Preston counted to   
ten in his head. This was all too surreal. He hadn't had such a demanding group of   
subjects since the case study on adopted, upper middle class, only children. Taking his   
glasses off of his head and pulling out a handkerchief, he started to clean them, rather   
fastidiously. "I see. Mister Jackson threatens you with the horror of…lima beans."   
  
JD nodded. "Ain't nothin' worse in the world, doc. Specially **hospital** lima beans."   
The kid shivered involuntarily.   
  
Preston wrote down a few more notes, growing irritated. His tolerance only went so far,   
and they had surpassed it at Mister Wilmington's comment about Shaq. This was not   
going well at all. He sighed and took a deep breath. "Mister Larabee, your turn."   
  
"Patient."   
  
Ezra snorted. "Hardly, Mister Larabee."   
  
"He ain't shot your smart ass yet has he, Ezra? I figure that takes a lot of patience."   
  
"Then I expect to have my body ridden with bullets the moment you regain hold of your   
firearm, Mister Larabee, if it's a matter of patience."   
  
"Well, my patience is just about worn out anyway."   
  
"You ever have it in the first place, Cowboy?" Vin asked, as if it were a genuine   
question.   
  
"Smart Asses. That's what I've got. I've got a bunch of smart ass sons 'a bitches."   
  
"Yes, I've noticed that as well," Preston chimed in, before he could stop himself.   
  
No sooner had he said it, he felt the infamous 'Larabee Death Glare' on him. "You shut   
your mouth. I didn't give you permission to talk. And if you ever call my men sons of   
bitches again, I'll shoot you myself."   
  
Preston bit his bottom lip and swallowed heavily, nodding his head. Then he bent down   
and wrote a note to himself about Larabee's hunger for absolute control/power, as well as   
a note on the possibility of the man being a homicide risk. "Can we…" his voice   
squeaked, and he had to take a moment to regain his senses before he spoke again. "Can   
we continue then?"   
  
Chris sat down, glaring daggers at the smaller man, but conceded to go on. "Nate's level-   
headed."   
  
"There you go with the word splicing again!" Vin interrupted.   
  
"It's two words that make up one term," Preston explained, trying to explain the concept   
to the young man without insulting Standish's pride again.   
  
"So if I'da said Chris is full of shit that would have counted as one word?"   
  
"No…"   
  
"Why not?"   
  
"Because, well, as apposed to Mister Standish's 'holier-than-thou' and Mister Larabee's   
'level-headed,' which are phrases used very often, 'full of shit' isn't a properly coined   
phrase and…"   
  
"It's three words, just like Ezra's. And I hear it all the time. Hell, I hear it more than his   
'holier-than-thou' thing."   
  
"He has a point," Josiah conceded.   
  
The doctor sighed. "One of you has to understand this…" He looked beseechingly at each   
of the men gathered in the circle. He was met with complete silence, perhaps a couple of   
blinks and one or two outright yawns. "Or not." He wrote himself a note on the margin of   
his paper, underlining it several times. "Let's just move on then shall we, boys? I will tell   
you if an answer is inappropriate when we come across one."   
  
Ezra looked from Josiah to the doctor. "That sounded tyrannical."   
  
"In what sense?" Josiah asked, looking at the younger man thoughtfully.   
  
"The doctor has decided to alter the rules as he sees fit for any future answers."   
  
Josiah shrugged. "Some seek power in any form they can get it, brother."   
  
"We'll discuss the merits of my tyranny after we've finished the exercise. Mister   
Wilmington, please go."   
  
"Nate's… well, he's…um… pragmatic?"   
  
Everyone looked at Buck in surprise, and even slight admiration. JD rolled his eyes and   
slouched further into his chair. "Word of the day calendar," the kid explained, staring at   
the ceiling in abject boredom.   
  
Realization dawned, and Ezra laughed. "I'm sorry gentlemen… what a twilight zone   
experience. I had thought Mister Wilmington used 'pragmatic' correctly, off the top of   
his head. Word of the day calendar indeed."   
  
Buck shot the southerner a dirty look and nodded at Vin.   
  
*SMACK*   
  
"OW! Hell Ezra! I didn't even hit you first that time!!!"   
  
Ezra smirked, having gotten to Vin before the sniper could hit him. "It was a preemptive   
smack."   
  
Preston sighed wistfully and crossed out the line on his paper that said Standish was of   
sound mind.   
  
  
One Word That Describes Ezra   
  
  
"Oh this ought ta be good," Buck chuckled, looking at Vin expectantly.   
  
"Ezra's violent," Vin began.   
  
"You hit me first on all occasions but one, Mister Tanner."   
  
"Yeah, but I **told** ya it weren't nothing personal."   
  
"If it makes you feel any better then Vin, you can hit Mister Wilmington as many times   
as I've hit you and consider us even."   
  
Vin looked slightly confused, but then realized what Ezra meant. "Okay."   
  
"Now wait a minute there, Junior, ya still lost that bet."   
  
"Only 'cause you cheated."   
  
"I did **not** cheat!!"   
  
"I hafta admit, betting against the Lakers was sorta dumb, Vin," JD started. "I mean, the   
Sixers? Yeah right!"   
  
"They got to the finals, didn't they?"   
  
"Like they had a chance from there on out," Nathan snorted. Vin shot him a look.   
  
"Ya'll ain't helpin' my case any. Buck's still a cheater."   
  
"Vin. Hit yourself."   
  
Tanner glowered at Wilmington. "What if I don't wanna?"   
  
"Then you're a double-crossing liar whose word ain't worth what a man scrapes offa the   
bottom of his shoe."   
  
Vin sighed, glaring first at Buck, then at Chris and Ezra, who both looked quite amused   
with the proceedings. He reached around and hit himself after a fierce internal debate   
with himself. *SMACK* "Ow, damn it."   
  
"Are we through, gentleman? Can we **please** get on with it?" Everyone looked at the   
psychiatrist, whose eye was beginning to twitch as he tried to write down more notes in   
his book. "Mister Dunne, please go."   
  
"Ezra's… talkative."   
  
Ezra couldn't deny that, so he shrugged at let the boys move on. "Ezra's verbose."   
  
"Mister Larabee, didn't Mister Dunne suggest that very thing just a moment ago?"   
  
"JD said he was talkative, which is defined by having a disposition to talk. I said he was   
verbose, which is using an excessive number of words. The definitions are obviously   
different."   
  
Ezra looked approvingly at Chris. The leader's eyes sparkled. "Had to put   
dictionary.com to lots of use when after I had to start readin' your reports, Standish,"   
Larabee explained. "Did you guys know there's a million fuckin' ways to say, 'I agree'?   
It's enough to drive someone nuts. Or crazy, insane, two cards short of a deck, nuts, zany,   
no longer in possession of one's faculties, cracked, maniacal, non compos mentis,   
incoherent, off one's rocker, psychotic …" He laughed then, and the tone of it greatly   
unnerved the doctor. The other six men in the room looked amused.   
  
"Um…yes. Moving on, Mister Wilmington?"   
  
"Longwinded."   
  
Preston sighed. "Yes, I suppose if he's talkative and verbose, he'd be longwinded as well.   
Mister Sanchez?"   
  
"Magniloquent."   
  
"Yes, that too, I should have known. Mister Jackson?"   
  
"Pleonastic."   
  
Ezra's eyes laughed. "I suppose those word power novels I bought for each of you last   
Christmas did some good. You did know what all those words meant, did you not,   
Doctor? I apologize in advance if my compatriots broke your rule yet again."   
  
"Yes, Mister Standish, I know that all those words meant the same thing," the   
psychologist sighed, more weary now than he had ever been in his life.   
  
Ezra looked wounded. "Then you did misunderstand. While Mister Larabee so   
graciously provided the definitions for talkative versus verbose, I feel I must state that the   
other words used by my teammates were quite different. The differences were subtle   
however; which gives you a slight excuse for missing them." The doctor made to stop   
him, but Ezra would have none of that. He shook his head and put a palm up to halt the   
man's advance. "Please, let me explain. Longwinded is defined as using or containing too   
many words, which is slightly more wordy than verbose itself. Magniloquent on the other   
hand, is defined as lofty and extravagant in speech, which isn't so much the amount of   
speech itself but the means in which it is used. Pleonastic is defined as using more words   
than are required to express an idea. It comes from the Late Latin root, **pleonasmus**   
which in turn, is from the Greek, **pleonasmos**, from **pleonazein**, meaning, **to   
be excessive**…"   
  
"Ezra, shut up," Buck groaned before the man could get too involved with his Latin and   
Greek.   
  
Standish, ruffled at having been interrupted, nodded in Larabee's direction.   
*SMACK*   
  
"Ow! **HELL**, Chris!"   
  
"Was that succinct enough for you, Mister Wilmington?"   
  
"Yeah, thanks Ezra."   
  
*SMACK*   
  
"Mister Tanner! You do have some control over your own actions, were you aware of   
that?"   
  
*SMACK*   
  
"Damn, quit it Ezra! Just go over and have Chris smack Buck will ya? He made me do it   
in the first place. My head's ringin'!" *SMACK*   
  
"Well perhaps you should have thought of that **before** you wagered your services,   
whatever they may be, to Mister Wilmington. I honestly thought I taught you better than   
that." *SMACK*   
  
"Ow, ow, **ow**!! Now c'mon Ez, you were the one that said sometimes betting on the   
under dog worked out!"   
  
"I'm afraid that the underdog I was talking about then wasn't quite as low down as the   
Sixers, Mister Tanner."   
  
Vin sighed, still clutching his head protectively. "You're right. That was a stupid bet.   
Buck **conned** me!"   
  
"Ezra taught me how ta con, so he's basically smackin' himself," Buck replied, quite   
satisfied with himself.   
  
Unable, for once, to argue, Ezra retaliated with a single finger salute with one hand, his   
sore head clutched with the other.   
  
  
One Word That Describes Vin   
  
"Please begin this round, Mister Dunne. We're almost through, I promise," Preston   
begged, noting that the men were getting edgy in their seats.   
  
"You want me to describe Vin? That's easy. Simple."   
  
"Oh, what a relief. Go on then, Mister Dunne."   
  
"I did."   
  
"Er, excuse me?"   
  
"Simple."   
  
"Oh, yes. Um…in what sense, exactly? A mental sense?"   
  
"There you go thinkin' Vin's stupid again," Chris growled. Vin looked hurt.   
  
"Now doc, don't let the accent fool ya," Buck added, in Tanner's defense. "Or the fact   
that he's from Texas."   
  
"No, I was merely asking Mister Dunne a question. What did you mean by simple?"   
  
"You know, for a 'one word and one word only' answer, you're sure making us talk a   
lot," JD grumbled. "It's just, he don't like things too complicated. He prefers it easy like   
and stuff. Natural, or something."   
  
"You could have just said easy-going in the first place, kid," Buck groused.   
  
"Well, why don't you then, Buck?" JD shot back.   
  
Buck looked thoughtful. "You know what? Don't mind if I do. I call, no one else use   
that."   
  
Preston sighed for the umpteenth time that day. "Can we continue gentlemen, or are we   
going to call the rest of our responses?"   
  
"I'd like to call all possible answers beginning with the letters A-J."   
  
"Shut up, Ezra."   
  
"Well, the doctor **did** ask." The southerner paused for a beat, then feigned   
realization. "Oh excuse **me**, was that actually more of his inappropriate sarcasm?"   
  
"And you're sayin' yours is appropriate?"   
  
"I am one of the 'subjects' Mister Jackson, I'm supposed to be obnoxious. The   
psychologist on the other hand, should be expected to control the situation and remain   
professional."   
  
"He has a point, Nate. I mean, whenever he's workin' a case you don't see Ez reach over   
and give the gun boss a Wet Willie. Or make fun of his weight."   
  
"Odd way of going about it, but thank you for the support, Mister Dunne."   
  
"He made fun of that one guy's shirt once," Vin pointed out.   
  
"It was a hideous shirt," Ezra replied in self-defense.   
  
"But it was unprofessional," Vin countered.   
  
"It was brown with orange stripes, Mister Tanner."   
  
"Point taken. He was askin' for that one."   
  
"Thank you."   
  
"Can we get on with it, gentlemen? Mister Larabee?"   
  
Chris looked at Vin. "He's dead."   
  
Preston's brow furrowed. "Is that really appropriate?"   
  
Vin laughed. "Ya sure you're fast enough ta take me, cowboy?"   
  
"Reckon you're dead if I am."   
  
Preston leaned over towards JD. "Is he always like that?" he asked the youngest member,   
realizing that both Tanner and Larabee were ignoring him.   
  
"Chris or Vin?"   
  
"Er…both."   
  
"Yeah, they're pretty much always that way."   
  
"He won't, actually, shoot Mister Tanner, will he?"   
  
"Hopefully not."   
  
The doctor's eyes bugged slightly. "Hopefully?"   
  
"If Buck gets back in time to hide his gun," JD added, trying not to break into a smile   
and give himself away. Apparently, those small undercover assignments with Ezra were   
paying off.   
  
The psychologist coughed, rather unsubtly, in an attempt to regain the men's attention.   
"Mister Wilmington?"   
  
"Vin? Vin's a sucker."   
  
Tanner looked wounded. "Hey! You conned me! You **admitted** to conning me! It   
wasn't my fault I lost."   
  
Buck grinned and motioned to Vin. The younger man looked surprise. "What?   
**Why**?" he exclaimed, thoroughly confused. After a little more prompting from Buck,   
Tanner sighed. "Fine." *SMACK*   
  
JD yelped. "What the heck was that for, Vin?!"   
  
"You were just at the wrong place at the wrong time, Mister Dunne. Mister Wilmington   
just wanted to assert his power over Vin once again. Rather juvenile of him, don't you   
think?"   
  
*SMACK*   
  
Ezra winced when Vin hit him again at Buck's bidding. "Mister Wilmington, did it ever   
occur to you that you could say something **witty** or perhaps even slightly   
**intelligent** in retaliation, instead of getting your **henchman** to do your dirty   
work for you?" Standish asked, irate and hurting. Nathan sighed and dug around in the   
shoulder bag he had taken to carrying around, finding one of the many aspirin bottles he   
carried and tossed it to Ezra. "Thank you, Mister Jackson."   
  
"I ain't a henchman!" Vin stated in self-defense. "Is it really my fault if I got worked   
over by some con man?"   
  
"Yes," everyone responded as one.   
  
"Really, one would think you'd know by now," Ezra added, opening his water bottle and   
taking a drink after popping two aspirin in his mouth. "You and I have been working   
together for 3 years."   
  
Vin, hurt, looked at Buck and ignored Ezra. "And whatever happened to, 'easy-going?"   
  
"I changed my mind. But, that one's still mine. I want dibs later."   
  
"For who? JD?" Vin drawled. "Yeah, he's REAL easy-going."   
  
"Look, boys, we're running out of time. Could we please, just finish this? No more   
ridiculing each other? No more smacking?"   
  
Ezra nearly choked on his water. "No ridiculing?" he asked, incredulously. What was he   
supposed to say for the rest of the day, in that case?   
  
Buck looked despondent. "No more smacking? Well, hell, this ain't going to be any fun."   
  
"It's a psychological study, Mister Wilmington, it wasn't supposed to be fun in the first   
place," Ezra responded.   
  
"Hey! What did the doc say about ridiculing?"   
  
"I wasn't ridiculing. I was pointing out the obvious."   
  
"Well, none of that either."   
  
"You aren't the one with the fancy leather notepad, Mister Wilmington. Everyone knows   
it's the only thing that grants the owner any respect in this situation and ergo, the person   
with the pad makes the rules. Mister Preston can decide whether or not there will be   
anymore pointing of the obvious."   
  
Preston looked wounded. "Mister Standish, there is no call for that sort of…"   
  
"Ridicule?" Buck finished for the doctor, still glaring at Ezra.   
  
"Enough!! Ezra, shut up. Buck, shut up and wipe that look off your face. We hurry this   
up, we can leave. Alive. I want out of here before I lose it and kill you all."   
  
Buck's jaw snapped shut and Ezra tried to look as dignified as possible after Chris'   
tirade. "Is there a rule against any further snappishness?" Ezra asked before he could help   
himself.   
  
"Yes. No more snapping. No more threatening, no more griping, whining, or   
unnecessary sarcasm and no more undermining my authority during the rest of this study.   
Now, let's move on. Mister Jackson."   
  
"Vin is injury prone."   
  
"Hey! That's two words. And I am not."   
  
"He's right about this one doctor, those are two separate words."   
  
"Well I think it works fine. Like I explained earlier, gentlemen? Remember?"   
  
"But it doesn't have the dash!" JD pressed. "Doesn't it need the dash, like in "easy-   
going," or something like that?"   
  
"I already called dibs on that, JD!!"   
  
"Well, I called 'dibs' on any answers from A-J but Mister Jackson still used injury   
prone."   
  
"Shut up, Ezra."   
  
"I feel it works, Mister Dunne, can we just leave it at that?" Preston sighed.   
  
"Fine. Make the **rest** of us follow the rules," JD said back, bored and annoyed.   
  
"I told you it was tyranny, Mister Dunne."   
  
"Mister Standish, kindly shut up."   
  
"You don't tell my men to shut up!!" Larabee snapped at Preston.   
  
"Looks like you pissed on Chris's tree, doc," Vin laughed. Preston seemed to be the only   
one confused by that comment.   
  
"Come again, Mister Tanner?" he asked, almost dropping his pencil.   
  
Vin shook his head. "You know… marked his tree? Invading his territory?"   
  
"Oh."   
  
"Geesh, even Ezra understood that one."   
  
"My apologies for not understanding your ridiculous analogy."   
  
"It wasn't ridiculous," Josiah defended Vin. "Actually, I think it had a lot of basis."   
  
"Thank you, Josiah," Vin said, nodding in thanks to the older man for his support.   
  
"And we thought there weren't gonna be anymore sarcasm," Nathan added, looking   
disapprovingly at Preston. The doctor wondered if these men knew how small they could   
make a man feel by looking at him alone.   
  
"Let's get on with it," Chris growled, getting tired. "And you don't say anything to my   
men I don't approve of, Preston. No threats, no sarcasm, no name-calling. Only I can do   
that."   
  
"Told ya that ya pissed on his tree," Vin chuckled, looking at the stricken doctor.   
  
"Um… my apologies, Mister Larabee. Go ahead, Mister Sanchez."   
  
"Easy-going."   
  
"Hey!!" Buck protested, pointing at Sanchez. "I called!"   
  
"Then you changed your mind," Josiah said, shrugging in response. Vin wondered if he   
wasn't the most easy-going of the bunch after all.   
  
"It's not like you could have used it for JD anyway, Buck," Nathan stated, trying to   
placate his friend.   
  
"Hey! I can be easy-going! I'm very easy-going. It's my middle name. Is everyone   
implying that I'm uptight?"   
  
"If the shoe fits…"   
  
"Shut up, Ezra," JD grumbled, glaring.   
  
Preston ignored the sideshow to the best of his ability. "Mister Jackson? Your turn."   
  
"Vin's a whiner."   
  
"What? I am not! Ya'll just poke around too much, Nate. I never whine! I complain once   
in a while, but I ain't ever sounded like JD."   
  
"Hey! I don't whine!" JD protested, trying to glare hard at Vin. Buck laughed out loud.   
  
"Well if'n that ain't the kicked puppy look, then I don't know what is, JD."   
  
"Shut up, Buck."   
  
"Boys, please…" The doctor buried his face in his hands. "We really just need to go   
around the circle one more time."   
  
"One and 1/7th more times," Josiah corrected, motioning to Ezra, who had a particularly   
thoughtful look on his face regarding his word for Vin.   
  
"Ah yes, Mister Standish, how could I forget? Are you ready sir?"   
  
Ezra had his cards out, and was shuffling them idly, a look of intense concentration on his   
face. After a second or so, he drew a random card from the lot and flipped it over.   
Reading it, he sighed and slid it back in amongst the others. "Cantankerous," he said after   
another minute.   
  
Vin snorted. "That's just another way of sayin' ornery."   
  
Ezra shrugged. "I was in a debate as to whether waspish or churlish was better for you,   
Mister Tanner. Because I couldn't decide, I assigned each card a word, and the card I   
chose ended up being cantankerous."   
  
"You know fifty two words for ornery?" Vin asked, impressed.   
  
Ezra shook his head. "68, actually, but I eliminated the more obvious ones. I wouldn't   
want to insult anyone by simplifying my vocabulary just for them." He looked over   
towards Preston, and smiled his most sincere smile. The doctor couldn't help but feel like   
he was being mocked. He didn't say anything however, because he really didn't want to   
incur another one of Ezra Standish's Harvard-law-quality tirades.   
  
  
One Word That Describes JD   
  
  
"Well boys, we've approached the homestretch. The last time around for Mister Dunne,   
and we will conclude our session for the day."   
  
Buck threw up his hands, and in a gospel-esque fashion, and asked if he could, "get a   
hallelujah," or something to that effect. Chris glared at him, but the mustached agent only   
grinned back.   
  
The doctor ignored them both. "It's been a long, long morning, but I trust this will go   
smoothly if everyone cooperates. Shall we begin? Mister Larabee, please start."   
  
"Young."   
  
"Hey! I'm almost 25!!" JD protested.   
  
Chris shrugged. "I'm 36, and I'm old?"   
  
JD ducked. "So, you haven't forgotten that, huh?"   
  
"Nope." Chris popped the "p" exaggeratedly, and JD began to worry about making that   
mistake again.   
  
"Mister Wilmington?"   
  
"Easy-going."   
  
Preston sighed. "Mister Wilmington, you don't HAVE to use the phrase just because you   
reserved it earlier. And Mister Sanchez already used it."   
  
"Well I called it. So Josiah can just go all the way back to Vin and think up another   
word." Buck crossed his arms defiantly. Suddenly, a realization hit him. He leaned   
forward in his chair, looking at Preston suspiciously. "Hey, what if I really think he's   
easy-going?"   
  
"Your teammates clearly said earlier that…"   
  
"Oh, so now YOU'RE callin' JD uptight?" Buck asked, staring at the doctor expectantly,   
waiting for an explanation. "You don't even know him."   
  
"No, no, I wasn't saying that. What I was saying is…"   
  
"Well if he's not easy-going, then what is he?"   
  
"**I'm** not supposed to describe him to you! I barely know him, Mister Wilmington."   
  
"Yet you're implying that he's uptight. You claim to not know him yet you immediately   
dismiss the possibility that he is easy-going."   
  
"Mister Standish! You know very well what I mean!"   
  
"What someone means and what someone says are more often than not, two completely   
different things. Enlighten me doctor, and please do say what you mean. If young Mister   
Dunne isn't easy-going, then he must be…" Ezra trailed off, motioning with a hand for   
Preston to finish the statement.   
  
The doctor sputtered. "This exercise isn't for me, gentlemen."   
  
"Avoiding the question isn't endearing your practicing technique to the rest of us, Mister   
Preston."   
  
Chris groaned and rubbed his temples. If Ezra had his way he'd dismantle the doctor   
piece by piece verbally, and leave the man a sobbing, shivering, murmuring pile on the   
floor, in the middle of the room, within the hour. As much as Chris enjoyed seeing his   
undercover agent tear down on occasion, he was tired of sitting in his damned armchair   
and more importantly, he wanted lunch. "Who's hungry?" the supervisor asked, his face   
still under his hands. Everyone turned from their debate on the doctor's insinuations and   
raised their hands. "Well if we don't get on with this, you're all gonna starve. So move!!"   
  
JD, horrified at the prospect of going so long without food that they wasted away before   
dropping dead, sat silent, and waited for his comrades to finish, his urging them to hurry.   
  
"Hungry," Josiah stated, instantly.   
  
Preston sighed. "Well, yes, I suppose that describes him…" He scribbled the word down   
rather hard, snapping his pencil tip straight off as he did. Then he laughed. It really was   
quite ridiculous. Use one word to describe your teammate. Someone said hungry. Next,   
someone would say tired, and then someone else would say weary, or possibly dogged.   
Then, someone else would follow through and say JD was anxious, and when the doctor   
would ask them to elaborate, they would answer, "because he wants to eat," just to smite   
him. "Hungry indeed. Mister Jackson?"   
  
"accident-prone."   
  
Preston, resigned, tossed his pencil over his shoulder and shut his notepad. "Didn't you   
say that already, Mister Jackson?"   
  
"I said Vin was injury prone." For his part, Nathan looked completely confused as to   
where Preston's sudden animosity was coming from.   
  
"Yes, injury prone and accident-prone are **very** different things," the psychiatrist   
drawled.   
  
"Well, injury is defined as damage or harm done to or suffered by a person or thing while   
an accident is an unexpected and undesirable event. So rather, an injury may be the result   
of an accident, but an accident is not the same thing as an injury…"   
  
"Yes, thank you, Mister Standish. Your vocabulary is very impressive."   
  
"Whereas yours is so obviously lacking. Out of curiosity, how did you do on the verbal   
portion of your SAT, Doctor Preston? You couldn't have taken it so long ago…"   
  
"If you're implying that I'm too young to be a man of my position, I assure you Mister   
Standish, I'm older than I look."   
  
"Now, doctor, I'm insulted again by your hurtful accusations. I was just asking a   
question, out of curiosity. It has nothing to do with the fact that you're barely old enough   
to shave."   
  
Preston sighed. "710. And yes, I shave. Shall we move on then?" he asked, brusquely.   
"Mister Standish, surprise, surprise, it's your turn to talk some more."   
  
"Mister Dunne? Well…vires acquirit eundo."   
  
"Mister Standish, this time I can practically guarantee that no one understood that."   
  
Josiah grinned. "He gains strength as he goes," the older man translated. "Latin is such a   
simple language, isn't it, Brother Standish?"   
  
"Like a cave drawing our ancestors etched onto walls using sticks and rocks, Mister   
Sanchez."   
  
Preston ignored them and made a motion in Nathan's direction. Without question, the   
medic dug into his bag and produced an aspirin bottle, shaking it to test how many were   
left before tossing it to the psychologist. "Yes, thank you, Mister Jackson. Mister Tanner,   
please finish us up for the day."   
  
"Bored."   
  
Preston barked in laughter. "Yes, he would be, wouldn't he? And I, well, I have a   
headache. What do you think Mister Jackson, would 7or 8 aspirin be a fair amount?"   
  
Buck leaned over to whisper to Chris as they watched their psychologist ram a handful of   
pills into his mouth. "You think we already broke him, after jest one day?"   
  
Chris shrugged. "I don't remember the odds Ezra gave us this morning."   
  
Buck pulled a card out of his back pocket and looked at it. "Huh. Says here that Ezra   
figured Preston would at least pull through till day two."   
  
"Guess we were expecting too much."   
  
"Guess so."   
  
  
TBC (maybe… where oh where has my musie gone?) 


	2. Word Association

Part Two: Word Association  
  
  
**9:38 AM, Tues., June 19th, 2001   
  
  
(From the notes of Dr. Samuel F. Preston)  
  
  
Well, considering how well the first part of my study went yesterday, I've decided Mister Larabee's team isn't ready to do any serious sharing with me yet. I can only hope that in reverting to this more primal form of practice, that is, the word association exercise, I will be able to get a read on these very complex men. I am not pleased to say that from the previous session, the only things I know about them is as follow: Chris Larabee is a blood thirsty animal and Vin Tanner is a smart ass hiding in an ignorant's clothing. JD Dunne has been shaped by his teammates' influences and nothing can save him save for intensive, perhaps physically debilitating shock therapy. Josiah Sanchez finds this highly amusing, and Nathan Jackson will kill his teammates and then possibly, resuscitate them just so he can do it again. Buck Wilmington slept with my secretary last night and is currently working on the female security guard downstairs. Ezra Standish is seriously making me reconsider my qualifications in this field of expertise. No one has ever made me reconsider my credentials before.   
  
  
I can only pray that we will be able to start over again today, perhaps get things going on the right foot. I take the time to note that during the second day of their session, Agent Freemond's team was already listing what they admired about each other most and sharing. I feel that Mister Larabee's team has something more complex to it than the previous teams, something beyond professionalism and respect. I just have yet to figure out what, exactly, that is. I also would like to take the time to note that the pencil shavings in my coffee this morning was childish and uncalled for.**   
  
  
Word Association: With Chris  
  
  
  
"All right Mister Larabee, I sent your teammates back into the reception area so we could do this as expeditiously as possible, I hope you don't mind."  
  
  
"If you're reception area's still in one piece at the end of this, I'd be surprised," Chris replied, taking the armchair facing the office door.   
  
  
The doctor furrowed his brow at the comment, but waved it off after a minute. "This won't take ten minutes, Mister Larabee. I doubt they'll be able to do any real damage in such a short amount of time," he chuckled, trying to dissolve the tension in the room.  
  
  
The ATF supervisor shrugged noncommittally. "Just remember you said that."   
  
  
"Of course. Now, I'm going to say a series of random words from the list in front of me, and I want you to say the first thing that comes to mind, okay?"  
  
  
"Sure."  
  
  
"All right..." Preston adjusted his glasses, trying to single out a category to begin with.   
"Ah...here we are. Food."  
  
  
"This."  
  
  
Preston wrote down a note. What a strange answer. "Water."  
  
  
"Is."  
  
  
"Clothes?"  
  
  
"Fucking."  
  
  
"Shelter?"  
  
  
"Boring."  
  
  
Preston decided to change the category, noting with some discomfort that Chris Larabee was telling his psychiatrist exactly what was on his mind right now. "Bears."  
  
  
"5."  
  
  
The psychologist brightened slightly. Numbers he could do. "Cats."  
  
  
"4."  
  
  
"Dogs?"  
  
  
"3."  
  
  
"Birds?"  
  
  
"2."  
  
  
"Monkeys."  
  
  
"1."  
  
  
"Mister Larabee...what on earth are you counting down for?" Preston asked, already growing exasperated. As if on cue, a crash, a whoop, and a scream came from the receptionist area. Preston put down his notebook and got up. "Oh dear lord," he muttered to himself, opening the door to his office to see what was happening.  
  
  
Chris lay back in the armchair and stretched out the muscles in his neck, grinning like a particularly satisfied jungle cat. "Told ya."  
  
Word Association: With Vin  
  
  
  
"Ah, just for the record doc, we're real sorry 'bout the stapler through your window. I guess Buck weren't kiddin' when he said go long."   
  
  
"Um...it's quite all right Mister Tanner. Please have a seat. I'm going to do a word association exercise with you right now, okay? I'll read off a list of words, and you tell me the first thing that comes to your mind for each one."  
  
  
"Sounds simple enough," the Texan shrugged. "Let's get on with it then. When I left me, Nate, and the Ezra were only a touchdown away from victory."  
  
  
"All right. Um... Chocolate..."  
  
  
"Chris."  
  
  
"Vanilla."  
  
  
"Probably."  
  
  
"Strawberry."  
  
  
"Did."  
  
  
"Banana."  
  
  
"This."  
  
  
"Fudge."  
  
  
"Already."  
  
  
"Old."  
  
  
"But."  
  
  
"New."  
  
  
"I."  
  
  
"Used."  
  
  
"Thought."  
  
  
"Borrow."  
  
  
"I'd."  
  
  
"Return."  
  
  
"See."  
  
  
"Exchange."  
  
  
"If."  
  
  
"Credit."  
  
  
"You'd."  
  
  
"Cash."  
  
  
"Fall."  
  
  
"Checks."  
  
  
"For."  
  
  
"Trade."  
  
  
"It."  
  
  
"Lend."  
  
  
"Again."   
  
  
"Books."  
  
  
"Looks."  
  
  
"Letters."  
  
"Like."  
  
  
"Magazines."  
  
  
"You."  
  
  
"Newspapers."  
  
  
"Did."  
  
  
The doctor stopped, and wrote a few things down, puzzling over the answers.   
  
  
"We done?"  
  
  
Preston looked up, at a very amused Tanner. "Um...yes, please send in Mister Standish."  
  
Vin nodded and got out of the chair, slowly making is way towards the door. Halfway out of the room, he heard it. "Oh dear. Yes...that's very funny. Very charming indeed."   
  
  
"Hey Ezra, your turn. What's the score?"  
  
  
Word Association: With Ezra  
  
  
"Are you ready for me, doctor?"  
  
  
"Yes, please take a seat Mister Standish. I trust you know what a word association exercise is?"  
  
  
"Of course," Ezra replied, taking the seat facing the door. At least he could see his teammates, still playing stapler football, in the window.   
  
  
"Well, then lets begin. This shouldn't take more than five minutes."   
  
  
"Oh, and **today** we're being expedient?"  
  
  
"There's no need for sarcasm."   
  
  
"Your accusations are getting rather tiresome, doctor."  
  
  
Preston tried to ignore the flippant undercover agent's remark. "Let's get started then, shall we?"  
  
  
"Please."  
  
  
"Time."  
  
  
"Wasting."  
  
  
"Clock."  
  
  
"Mind-numbing."  
  
  
"Watch."  
  
  
"Monotonous."  
  
  
"Evening."  
  
  
"Dreary."  
  
  
"Morning."  
  
  
"Tedious."   
  
  
"Afternoon."  
  
  
"Incessant."  
  
  
"Midnight."  
  
  
"Boring."   
  
  
Preston sighed. "You know, you and your friends are certainly something. I'm sorry you find this boring Agent Standish, but I doubt AD Travis will be happy with my findings if this keeps up."  
  
  
"Stapler."  
  
  
"No, you don't understand... we're taking a pause from the exercise right now. I am taking the time to formally berate you for this less than respectful behavior. Forget the exercise!"  
  
  
"Duck."  
  
  
Furious, the psychologist stood up, full of righteous indignance and formerly suppressed anger. "Mister Standish!! I am talking to you outside of the exercise, currently and I know you understand that concept so please..."  
  
  
Ezra decided the man couldn't be helped, no matter how much warning he received. So, the agent ducked himself, just as the stapler posing as a football crashed through the window of the office door, sailing through the air and thumping the psychologist in the back of head rather soundly.   
  
  
"Heads!!!" JD called, through the broken glass, a little too late.   
  
  
Ezra, wiping off shards of glass from his suit, sighed as Preston slid bonelessly into his chair, quite obviously unconscious. "I told you."   
  
Word Association: With Nathan  
  
  
Preston awoke to a very unpleasant odor, and reflexively, waved his hand in front of his face. The world came into focus slowly, but he made out the concerned features of Nathan Jackson standing above him, with a vial of smelling salts. "What..."  
  
  
"You got hit in the head with Vin's 'spiral' and JD yelled warning a little too late," Nathan stated, as if that explained everything.   
  
  
Still disoriented, the psychologist struggled to get up, taking Nathan's help in the form of an offered hand. "I was unconscious?"  
  
  
Nate nodded, putting his salts back into his carry case.   
  
  
"How long?"  
  
  
"Ah, ten minutes."  
  
  
"Oh dear. We really should be moving along then..." Preston mumbled, clutching his aching head and trying to reestablish himself in his armchair.  
  
  
Nathan pulled out a vial of aspirin from his case. The doctor took it thankfully, downing two pills with his coffee. "Er... do you always keep smelling salts and aspirin handy?" he asked, somewhat disconcerted.  
  
  
The ex-paramedic shrugged. "Have to. With the shit these boys get into everywhere they go, figure it's just easier for me if I'm prepared. I got supplies to stitch wounds, band aids, syringes of morphine, thermometers, ophthalmoscopes, a stethoscope, bandages, gauze, braces, hydrogen peroxide, Neosporin, aloe, aspirin, six forms of Tylenol, cough syrup, and a sling in my case right now. Got crutches, an eye washing bottle, a sphygmomanometer, and a foldable wheelchair in the trunk of my car."  
  
  
"Right." Preston made a note of that. "Um... shall we start then? The way this exercise works is...I um, I read you off a couple of words, and you reply to each one with the er...first thing that comes to mind."  
  
  
"You sure you're up to this?" Nathan asked, noting that the doctor was still slightly dizzy.   
  
  
"Yes, yes, I'm fine. Positive. Let's get started, shall we?"  
  
  
Nathan sighed. "Fine. No one listens to me anyway, why should the psychologist?"  
  
  
"There's no need for sarcasm."  
  
  
"Don't start talkin' like Ezra to me, I know what sort of mind games people like ya'll play."  
  
  
"I wasn't..."  
  
  
"Sure ya weren't. Now can we get on with this?"  
  
  
"Yes, let's get on with it. I explained the rules?"  
  
  
"Yeah, you did. Are you sure you're all right?" Nathan pulled an ophthalmoscope from his black case, shining it in Preston's eyes.   
  
  
The psychiatrist blinked. "Mister Jackson, that's not necessary! I'm quite fine."  
  
  
Sighing, Nathan clicked the light off and shoved the scope back into his bag. "Fine. Just remember to tell your doctor about that short term memory loss and the head injury when ya'll start havin' blackouts."   
  
  
"I'm all right. Let's get started..."  
  
  
Buck suddenly poked his head back into the office. "Nate, JD needs a..."  
  
  
Nathan sighed and grabbed the box of band-aids, tossing to Buck. "I told ya'll to at least unload the stapler first!"  
  
  
Buck looked sheepish. "Yeah. We'll do that. Can we have the..." The ex-medic tossed Wilmington the small bottle of hydrogen peroxide, a baggie of cotton balls, and the tube of Neosporin. "Thanks Nate," he replied, ducking back out.   
  
  
Preston made another note, off to the side on his notepad. "Ready?"  
  
  
"Yeah."  
  
  
"Children."  
  
  
Nathan's brow furrowed. "JD."  
  
  
"Games."  
  
  
"Oh God..."   
  
  
Preston, examined the chemist's facial expressions carefully. Perhaps he was digging up some bad memories? He kept going. "Tag."  
  
  
"What if..."  
  
  
"Hide and seek."  
  
  
"They need to wash it."  
  
  
"Marco Polo."  
  
  
"What if it needs stitching?"  
  
  
"Peek-a-boo."   
  
  
"It could be worse than they're letting on..."  
  
  
"Ring around the rosy."  
  
  
"It might get infected."  
  
  
"Time out."  
  
  
"What if they need bigger bandages?"  
  
  
Preston sighed, noting that Nathan was no longer with him. "Mister Jackson, is there a problem?"  
  
  
"Yeah...I need to go doc. Thanks," Nathan replied hastily, getting out of his chair and making for the door. "JD!!! Let me see that cut!!!!!"   
  
Word Association: With JD  
  
  
JD batted half-heartedly at Nathan to leave his hand alone. "It's fine Nathan!! It doesn't even hurt! Look! It's washed, it's creamed, and it's bandaged. I'll be okay. Can I just do this?" The kid motioned to himself then to Dr. Preston.   
  
  
Nathan sighed, and threw his hands up in the air. "The thanks I get. Fine. I'm going."  
  
  
"Thank you, Nathan," JD added, as his older friend made his way back to the reception area.   
  
  
"I trust you're all right then, Mister Dunne?" Preston asked, massaging his temples with his hands.  
  
  
"Yeah, I'm good. Uh...sorry about the stapler thing earlier."  
  
  
"Yes, one would think you gentlemen would have learned after you threw the first stapler out the window and 3 stories down. If someone had been standing outside there would have been quite a lawsuit."  
  
  
"Well, we only hit some gray neon sitting in the parking lot. I bet there was only a little dent, so no big."  
  
  
Preston rubbed his head harder. "That was a new car."  
  
  
"Oh...sorry Doc. Buck'll pay for it. He threw it in the first place."  
  
  
"We should really get on with this."  
  
  
"Sure."  
  
  
"All right, this is a word association exercise..."  
  
  
"Don't need to explain, Vin and Ezra told us all about it while we were playin' football. Say, why didn't you duck when Ezra warned you?"  
  
  
"I thought he was still doing the exercise," the psychologist started, sheepishly. At JD's less than impressed look, he coughed. "Um, you had to be there, it was rather confusing."  
  
  
"Oh. Okay. Let's do this, then."  
  
  
"All right. Thanksgiving."  
  
  
"Um... uh..."  
  
  
"The first thing that comes to mind, Mister Dunne."  
  
  
"Well, last Thanksgiving, we were all up at Chris' cabin and Vin said he'd make the pie, cuz that was easy, and any idiot could follow the instructions on the back of the can. So he was makin' it, then he got into an argument with Ezra over how he thought it would be better if we had baked potatoes insteada mashed potatoes and he forgot about the pie... and whew... we had to put it out with a fire extinguisher and Chris weren't too happy. Luckily Inez had brought and apple cobbler else we woulda..."  
  
  
"Mister Dunne. The first **thing** that comes to your mind."  
  
  
"That WAS the first thing. I was sharing! We were communicating and all that. What kind of psychiatrist are you anyway? I thought you were supposed to **listen**?"   
  
  
"I was listening. It was a fascinating story. But we don't have time for such...sojourns into your past right now. We're already behind schedule as it is, and..."  
  
  
"Wow, and people pay you for this kinda session?" JD looked skeptical. "Figures you'd be desperate enough to do a job for the government."   
  
  
"Mister Dunne, your sarcasm isn't appreciated, either."  
  
  
"Well excuse me. Go on then."  
  
  
"Valentine's Day."  
  
  
"Do you have a girlfriend?"  
  
  
"Mister Dunne, that isn't relevant."  
  
  
"It was the first thing that came to my mind!!!"  
  
"For your information, no I don't have a girlfriend. Now, let's keep going. St. Patrick's Day."  
  
  
"Figures."  
  
  
Preston was insulted at the ridicule of his love life, or lack thereof. "What exactly, do you mean by THAT, Mister Dunne?"  
  
  
"NOW you want me to elaborate? This is crazy."  
  
  
"I suppose that's why you're here," Preston drawled.   
  
  
"Yeah, guess so. Anyone in their right mind would go to a psychologist that DIDN'T work for the government."  
  
  
"YOU work for the government."  
  
  
"Yeah, and you think I'm crazy. You're workin' for the Fed. too, what does that make you?"   
  
  
"This isn't getting us anywhere Mister Dunne."  
  
  
"Can I leave then? We were winning!"  
  
  
"No, you can't leave until we're through. Now, concentrate. 4th of July."  
  
  
"Buck lit his shirt on fire when he reached across the grill to give the receptionist from billings a pinch at the bureau BBQ."  
  
  
"Yes, very good." Preston scribbled something down hastily. "Can you be slightly more concise than that?"  
  
  
"You want SHORTER? God, how'd you get Ezra to do it?"   
  
  
"He was bored out of his skull..."  
  
  
"And you think I'm not?!"  
  
  
"All right, enough Mister Dunne. Let's just finish this, all right?"  
  
  
"Okay."  
  
  
"June 14th."  
  
  
"Is that supposed to be some sort of holiday?"  
  
  
"Flag Day."  
  
  
"Wait, is that June 14th, or the next question?"  
  
  
"JD, there is no question. Only the first thing that comes to mind."  
  
  
"Fine."  
  
  
"All right. Money."  
  
  
"Whatever."  
  
  
"Earnings."  
  
  
"Sure."  
  
  
"Losings."  
  
  
"Kay."  
  
  
"Bills."  
  
  
"Cool."  
  
  
"Taxes."  
  
  
"Great."  
  
  
"Mister Dunne, there's no need to be huffy."  
  
  
"Ass."  
  
  
"And there's no need to call names!"  
  
  
"Sissy."  
  
  
  
"Look, stop the exercise. What exactly, is wrong, now?"  
  
  
"You want the first thing that comes to mind?" JD asked, before he could help himself.   
  
  
"This sucks. How can you possibly tell me what kind of agent I am by asking me about taxes and Valentine's Day?"  
  
  
"Because it's...well, it's part of the procedure."  
  
  
"And you get paid for this?"  
  
  
"Again, with the sarcasm..."  
  
  
"Doc, this is boring. There's no point. I kinda wish another stapler would fly through the door and hit ME in the head right now. I could use the ten minutes of unconsciousness. Look, are we done?"  
  
  
The psychologist sighed. "Yes, I suppose we are. Go... go get hit in the head with an office supply, if it makes you feel any better."  
  
  
"Oh trust me it does...thanks, doc!" JD flashed out of the room in record time. Preston heard him yelling that he was open to Buck a second later, then another crash and his secretary screaming.   
  
Word Association: With Josiah  
  
  
  
"Have a seat, Mister Sanchez."  
  
  
"Doctor."  
  
  
"I trust your teammates have informed you as to the nature of our exercise?"  
  
  
"Well, all I was told was, and I quote, that you, "in an act of desperation, pulled out your big yellow book of Psychology For Dummies, closed your eyes, opened the literature, if it could be called that, and put your finger down randomly to plan our activity for the day". Let me ask you doctor, do they really make a Psychology book for Dummies?"  
  
  
Preston looked injured. "Let me guess, that was... Mister Standish?"  
  
  
Josiah shrugged. "He's always been elaborate in his gripes."  
  
  
"And for the record, yes, that title is available, and no, I don't own a copy."  
  
  
"Good to know."  
  
  
"What we're doing is a word association game. I say a word, you say the first thing that comes to mind."  
  
  
Sanchez's eyebrows knitted. "And this will tell you what kind of agents we are?"  
  
  
The psychiatrist sighed at the older man's tone, and after a moment, gave up. "Yes. Yes it will. It will tell me your methods, your experience, and your principles. For example, if I say, "cheese," and you answer, "mouse," I'll know you have a conventional train of thought. If I say "cheese," and you say, "fuck you," then I'll know you're a part of Mister Larabee's team."   
  
  
Josiah appreciated the humor. This man certainly sounded like he had been touched by Team 7's charm in a not so good way. The preacher's son grinned largely. Was this a bad time to tell the man Ezra had tackled Buck onto the bonsai tree back in the receptionist area? Looking at the slight tick Preston was developing near his left eye, Sanchez decided that could wait. "Okay then, let's begin."  
  
"Fire."  
  
  
"The 4th of July barbeque, where Buck..."  
  
  
"I've heard this story."  
  
  
Josiah looked less than impressed with Preston's approach to psychology. "Do you do that often? Interrupt a story and tell your patient you've already heard one just like it?"  
  
  
"No, but I normally don't have to. Most of the time, my patients aren't trying to drive me crazy. We get along fine, and they tell me their problems. You know, I've never had to deal with this sort of thing before. I thought that if I ever did, I'd be able to handle it. But, I suppose that's my mother in me talking. She always had unbelievable confidence, but when things got rough, she got defensive and..."  
  
  
Josiah folded his hands in his lap and nodded. "Tell me all about it, son."  
  
  
Twenty minutes later, an irate Buck knocked on the door. "Josiah! You done in there!? What the hell did he say to you, "theology," or something?"  
  
  
"One minute, brother Buck!" Josiah replied. He turned back to Preston. "What I'm seeing here is some unresolved issues between you and your mother. It does sound like she's been tough on you, but I'm betting it's only because she loved you. I think you need to call her and confront her with your feelings, be honest for once. You'll be surprised what happens."  
  
  
The doctor blinked watery eyes at Sanchez. "But, I can't call mother and tell her..."  
  
  
Josiah stopped him. "It's the only way we'll get past these frustration issues. Now, I want you to do as I ask, and call me after you've don it to tell me how you feel. I can almost guarantee it will be 100% better, and you and your mother will be just that much closer."  
  
  
Preston sniffled and nodded, blowing his nose again. "Yes, I'll do that, Mister Sanchez, thank you very much."  
  
  
"Josiah! You done yet!? I wanna have time ta grab some lunch fore we have to get back to the office!" Buck demanded, once again, growing impatient. Giving up, he finally opened the door and peered inside, to see Preston dabbing his eyes and Josiah sitting in his chair, hands folded in his lap, with that 'fatherly wisdom' look on his face. Buck sighed. "I interrupt something?"  
  
  
"Just a man baring his soul, brother Buck. I believe I'm done here," Josiah replied, getting up and shaking Preston's hand. "I hope I helped, son."  
  
  
Word Association: With Buck  
  
  
  
"Well, seein' as to how you seem to be in a happier mood, I think it's safe ta tell you that I squished that rat tree ya had next to Linda's desk."  
  
  
Preston sighed, trying to reign in his temper. "It's a bonsai tree, Mister Wilmington. Very expensive."  
  
  
"Looked like an underfed weed ta me, doc. And what was with all the little rocks? Those sorta hurt."  
  
  
"Look Mister Wilmington, I know you don't want to be here. The faster we do this, the faster you gentlemen can leave."  
  
  
Buck's eyebrows and moustache twitched comically. "Sure, doc."  
  
  
"All right. This is a word association game."  
  
  
"Game?"  
  
  
"Yes, most commonly played with 5 year olds in school counseling sessions."  
  
  
"Wow, and they pay you for this?" Wilmington asked, with striking likeness to Mister Dunne's question earlier. Preston could see who the kid got it from.  
  
  
"Yes, I get paid for this. The way it's played is, I will read you a word. You say the first thing that comes to mind."  
  
  
"The very first thing?"  
  
  
"Yes."  
  
  
The ladies man's forehead creased. "But, what if it's wrong?"  
  
  
"There is no right or wrong answer."  
  
  
"Then how the hell do you keep score? I thought this was a game."  
  
  
"It's not a game where there's a winner or a loser Mister Wilmington. We're here to delve into your inner psyche."  
  
  
"By making me list random words?"  
  
  
"Yes. That's the gist of it. Can we just begin?"  
  
  
"Yeah, fine."  
  
  
"Summer."  
  
  
"The 4th of July party where I..."  
  
  
"Already heard this one."  
  
  
"Do you want to get into my inner psyche or not?"  
  
  
"I don't see how you setting yourself ablaze shows me anything except the fact that you might be a fire hazard."  
  
  
"You know, you're startin' to pick up Ezra's sarcasm," Buck said, pointing an accusing finger at Preston.  
  
  
The doctor swallowed. There was no way, was there? That level of sarcasm required years of practice. He had only been frustrated for one day. "Um, sorry about that. Shall we continue then?"  
  
  
"Sure."  
  
  
"Winter."  
  
  
"This one ski lodge up in the Rockies...me'n Chris found some snow bunnies, needed warmin' up...if ya catch my drift..." Buck silhouetted a shapely figure in the air with his hands and waggled his eyebrows.   
  
  
Preston looked down at his notepad instantly. "Please Mister Wilmington, can we skip the innuendo and get serious about this?"  
  
  
"Damn, but you do sound like a coupla ladies I know," Buck laughed. "Next you'll be talkin' bout our future together."   
  
  
"Mister Wilmington! Why must my sexuality always be questioned in your presence?!"   
  
  
Buck backed away from that one. "Now, it don't matter either way to me what ya prefer Doc, that's your private life. I kinda wish you'd kept it private though, 'cause I don't really wanna hear about it. Besides, I thought we were here to talk about MY problems?"  
  
  
"As numerous as they are, Mister Wilmington, I don't think we'll have time."  
  
  
"Well then, what's the point? I thought that was what a shrink was supposed to do."  
  
  
"This isn't a personal session, I'm here to analyze the dynamics of your team."  
  
  
Buck laughed. "Is that all? Well, why didn't ya say so in the first place?" Wilmington asked, mustache twitching on one side, rather comically. "It's like this, doc. Chris is a mean son of a bitch. And that's **all** you gotta know."   
  
  
Apparently, the older agent believed that explained **everything** that had anything to do with Team 7, because with that, he got up, patted the psychologist on the shoulder once, and bound out the door again. Preston pulled out the aspirin bottle Nathan had left with him the other day. At the time, he had wondered what the medic meant when he had said, "keep it, 'cause ya'll will need it." Now... well, now, he knew.   
  
  
TBC  
*Watches as Muse gasps for breath*  
Maybe... 


	3. Chapter 3: Inkblots (Part 3a)

Part Three: Inkblots   
  
  
**9:45 AM, Wed., June 20th, 2001   
  
  
(From the notes of Dr. Samuel F. Preston)  
  
  
Well, here begins the third day of our session, and Mister Larabee and his team are only 15 minutes late. At least I have finished my coffee by now, and don't have to worry about any surprise "gifts" in it this morning. Peering out of my window, I can see Mister Tanner and Mister Larabee waiting in the parking lot for their teammates, opting to not come up without them. That might mean something significant in their relationship to one another, so I will make not of it here. Perhaps I can learn about them outside of their session as well? A nagging voice in the back of my head says the only reason they are waiting outside is that they don't wish to spend any more time with me than their coworkers have to. It's been a long time since that voice in the back of my head has doubted me. I worry about my health in this line of work, sometimes.  
  
  
Today, I am dusting off the old inkblot cards. It's an archaic practice, but I'm really at a loss. Did you know, that when I went to pick up a book at the store last night I actually wondered if I needed a Dummy's guide to psychology? It was disheartening, to say the least. But, hopefully, the inkblots will be somewhat entertaining to the men in that they won't resort to verbally kicking me for their fun. It wouldn't be so bad to learn something about them today, as well. Yesterday was rather fruitless. However, due to yesterday's incidents, I have a broken bonsai tree, which was a present from my professor, a dent in my new car, a heartbroken secretary (Mister Wilmington went home with the female security guard last night), and a thoroughly abused stapler. How does one play football with a stapler, three stories up, in the confined spaces of an office building, anyway? Let's see, what else have I learned? Well, Chris Larabee is vulgar, and proud of it. Vin Tanner is misleading in his own, soft-spoken, passive way. Ezra Standish is a puzzle, though he expects everyone to understand him without question. JD Dunne might have ADD. Nathan Jackson is a worrywart, far beyond even the motherly definition of the term. Josiah Sanchez is a surprisingly wonderful listener. Lastly, Buck Wilmington likes to hear himself talk almost as he loves flirting.   
  
  
Well, by the sounds of cussing, loud laughter, and the occasional thump, coming from outside my door I would say they're almost here now. That means I must end these notes, for now. I hope that today, the third day of all days, I will be able to gauge each man's individual way of thinking through the inkblot tests. Wish me luck.**   
  
  
Inkblots: With JD  
  
  
  
"All right, Mister Dunne, I'm going to hold up a series of photographs for you, and you tell me what you think they look like. Okay?"   
  
  
"Photographs? Won't they look like whatever's in them?"  
  
  
"Well, they're technically photographs of inkblots."  
  
  
The agent nodded amiably. "Sure. Ask away."  
  
  
"All right. What do you see in this one?"  
  
  
"It looks black."  
  
  
"Well, yes, that's because it's ink. What do you see?"  
  
  
"Black."  
  
  
"No. I don't think you understand." Preston circled the entire inkblot with his hand. "What does it look like?"  
  
  
"Ink."  
  
  
"Yes, it is ink. But, what does it look like?"  
  
  
"Why would it look like anything else if it's ink?" JD asked, motioning to it with his hand. "It looks like ink. That's because it IS ink. Why would it be anything else if it **looks** like ink, and it **is** ink?"  
  
  
Preston put the card down. "Do you see a picture in the ink shape, Mister Dunne?"  
  
  
"I see black, if that's a picture."   
  
  
Sighing, the doctor adjusted his glasses on his head. "Has anyone ever taught you how to think outside of the box, JD? Can I call you JD?" the doctor questioned, trying to remain patient today.  
  
  
"Sure, whatever. So... there's a box inside there somewhere?" JD asked, grabbing the picture and studying it closely. After a minute of intense scrutiny, he tossed the photo back, sending it spinning like a throwing star at the psychologist. "I don't see a box. You know what I see?"  
  
  
"Yes!! You understand then. What do you see, Mister Dunne?" Preston poised his notes.  
  
  
"I see black."   
  
  
He sighed and threw his hands up in the air. "Very well. You see black. Does this black which you obviously see, have a shape?"  
  
  
"Well, yeah."   
  
  
"All right then, what is that shape?"  
  
  
"It looks like someone took a paintbrush and splattered ink all over a piece of paper."   
  
  
"That's basically what they **did**, JD."  
  
  
"Well see? I was right then."  
  
  
"But that's not the point."  
  
  
JD looked genuinely puzzled. "Then what IS the point?"  
  
  
"**How** you answer the question."  
  
  
"Well, **how** I answered it was right!!!!"  
  
  
"There is no wrong or right answer."  
  
  
"Then what's the point of asking in the first place?"  
  
  
"Because...well, because it's part of the exercise."  
  
  
"And what's the point of the exercise?"  
  
  
Preston sighed. "The point of the exercise is to gauge your way of thinking."  
  
  
"I thought that was the point of yesterday's exercise."  
  
  
"It was. But, yesterday's exercise obviously didn't work."  
  
  
"Then what makes you so sure today's will work?"  
  
  
"I'm beginning to think this **was** a mistake, actually."  
  
  
"Then there is no point."   
  
  
"There is a point!! But you do an excellent job of avoiding it."  
  
  
"Well I'm not doing it on purpose, 'cause I can't see the point! I got the damn answer right."  
  
  
"There IS no right or wrong answer."  
  
  
"Well then, I might not have gotten it right, but I didn't get it wrong, either." The youngest agent plopped back against his chair, growing disinterested. "I do it the best way I can, try to follow your directions, and I'm bein' truthful. What else do you want from me, doc?"   
  
  
Preston held up the next card. "Well, what does THIS one look like?"  
  
  
JD looked incredulous. "You've got to be kidding me. It looks like some more goddamn ink!! Except instead of splattering it like the first one, they coated a brush and rammed it onto the paper."  
  
  
"That's because they did."  
  
  
"Then I'm right?"  
  
  
"You're right in the method it took to create the picture, but your answer is wrong."  
  
  
"I thought there were no wrong answers."  
  
  
"There aren't."  
  
  
"Then why'd you say mine was wrong?"  
  
  
"Because it isn't what we're looking for."  
  
  
"So there IS a right or wrong answer!"  
  
  
"Well, in a sense, yes. What we want is for you to see if you can find a picture in the inkblot."  
  
  
JD grabbed the card again, and studied it closely. "You mean like one of those Eye Spy books?" He scanned it carefully, waiting for an image to pop out from behind the ink. After a minute, he gave up. "I don't see anything."  
  
  
Preston took the card back and studied it himself. Damn it, the boy was supposed to say it looked like a bird, or a dragonfly, or **something** with wings at least. He waved it in Dunne's face once more. "Anything?"  
  
  
"Actually..." JD leaned in closer, squinting at the photograph. "If you look really close?"  
  
  
"Yes?" Preston urged, getting excited.   
  
  
"Instead of just black... you can see a little blue when the light catches it just right..."   
  
  
Inkblots: With Ezra  
  
  
  
When JD was forcibly ejected from the office, the rest of the seven turned around, making sure to hide the fact that Vin and Ezra were booby trapping the office door. Buck was busy distracting Linda, the secretary, his voice oozing charm and reasons why he didn't call her the other night so that she was ignorant to Tanner and Standish's actions.   
  
  
"Finished so soon, JD?" Chris asked, pausing from perusing a magazine on the couch as he and Nathan desperately tried to ignore Vin and Ezra's plans by the door. Josiah was sound asleep in the armchair opposite them, snoring away. JD noted with no small amount of amusement that one of the guys hand drawn a circle in the middle of each of Sanchez's closed eyelids, like makeshift pupils.   
  
  
"Uh, yeah," JD replied, realizing he hadn't answered Chris right away. "It was more stupid stuff."  
  
  
"Care to elaborate on what kind of, 'stupid stuff,' the doctor has seen fit to expose us to, Mister Dunne?" Ezra inquired, while Vin snickered to himself as he perched a container full of water, pencil shavings, and cottage cheese on the top of the door.   
  
  
"Ink," JD responded, looking back towards the office, slightly sore at having been so rudely asked to leave just now. All that the doctor had to do was tell him he was done and that he could go. He didn't have to go as far as he had and say, "go then. It's black. Fine. You're done. Go sit outside with the rest of your team. Leave. Send in Mister Standish after I've had a few minutes to myself. I might as well get the worst over with first," like he had. "We need to give him a few seconds to gather himself before we send Ezra in," JD added.   
  
  
Nathan snorted. "He probably wants to get Ezra over with before the aspirin start's wearin' off."   
  
  
Chris looked at his watch. "That was a coupla minutes, don't you think? Ezra...git."  
  
  
"My pleasure, Mister Larabee," Ezra replied, before taking the time to explain one last thing to Vin about the cups and the water cooler in the corner before he casually strolled into Preston's office.   
  
  
"Ah, good morning, Mister Standish. Please, have a seat," Preston greeted, though much of the cordiality was show, as far as Ezra could tell.   
  
  
Sitting himself on the edge of the chair, Ezra leaned against one of the armrests and looked at the doctor expectantly. "And what has the Dummies Guide to Psychology dictated that we must do today, doctor?"  
  
  
Preston sighed; already they were starting with the jibes. "Ezra, if I can call you Ezra... I can assure you that my methods are not derived from that book, nor any other form of ridiculous literature, for the matter. "  
  
  
"My apologies, doctor. I suppose I meant, what has the magic eight ball asked of us today?"  
  
  
"You're very funny, Ezra. Have you ever considered comedy?"  
  
  
"Is this the object of today's game?"   
  
  
"No, just making idle conversation I suppose. Today, we're doing inkblots."  
  
  
"How the mighty have fallen."  
  
  
"What was that?"  
  
  
"Nothing, Sam."  
  
Dr. Preston raised a brow. "Sam?" he asked.  
  
  
"Well, you've endeavored to call me by my first name. I would find it completely unfair if I weren't allowed to return the favor."  
  
  
"Ah yes, go right ahead then. Anyway, the way this works is, I'll show you a photograph, you tell me what it looks like, and we go on from there. It shouldn't take very long."  
  
  
"Praise be."  
  
  
"Shall we begin, then?"  
  
  
"Please," Ezra agreed. He was almost looking forward to this.   
  
  
"All right... how about this one?" Preston selected a card and waved it in front of the undercover agent.   
  
  
Ezra studied it for a moment and then with a look of delight, put a finger on it. "Why, it appears to be a charming frontier town, post civil war, by the looks of it. There's the sheriff, and there's the deputy in front of the jail. And there's a horse, a trough, and some tumbleweed. Oh, and I do believe that charming building with the batwing doors to the left of the picture is the saloon."   
  
  
Preston pulled the picture back from Ezra, and stared at it himself. It was actually, for the most part, in the shape of a couch. He turned back to Ezra, who looked so sincere about his saloon vision that Preston didn't know if the man was playing with him or actually serious. By the expression on Standish's face, the psychologist would say he was dead serious. But, how could that be? "Are you sure that's what you see?"  
  
  
Ezra looked indignant. "What would you have me see, Sammy? Ink? Black? I scoff at the thought of such practicality," the flamboyant agent drawled, quite seriously.  
  
  
Preston sighed, ignoring the use of the rather distasteful monomer "Sammy". "I suppose that's plausible, Ezra. Would you care to point out what you see, exactly?"  
  
  
Standish sighed condescendingly, taking the photograph from Preston with exaggerated care. "Now, pay special attention Sam, as I am only in the mood to point this out once."  
  
  
Over the next fifteen minutes, Ezra burst into a stream of flowery rhetoric about every bump, splatter, and curve on the photo, pointing out certain aspects that they could symbolize during his theoretical timeframe. Listening to the man talk, Preston felt his mind begin to cloud with the seven syllable words and flowing, soothing accent. Seven minutes into the lecture, the psychologist was hopelessly drawn in, unable to think for himself but instead, focusing every iota of consciousness to the sound of Ezra's voice. He leaned forward, resting his chin on the palm of his hand, and began nodding his head in time with the speech, looking from the inkblot to speaker alternately as he did. It really was quite fascinating. Within 9 minutes, he believed every word Standish was spouting, vaguely aware that he could see it in the inkblot himself now, as well.  
  
  
"That's brilliant, Ezra! Why, if you look there, you can see a covered wagon." Preston pointed to the edge of a large curve in the picture, along the bottom edge. He pulled out the next card. "What about this one? Do you see anything of that nature in this one?"   
  
  
Ezra squinted and studied it, nodding his head and putting on quite a show of "hums and I sees." When the undercover agent decided the poor psychologist couldn't stand the excitement anymore, he looked the man in the eye. "I see..."  
  
  
"Yes?"  
  
  
"Black."   
  
  
  
~~~~~~~~~~~~~  
  
Chris, still flipping idly through his magazine, began to count down under his breath. "5..."  
  
  
"4..." Nathan added.  
  
  
"3..." Vin called, from where he played with the cream and sugar by the coffee maker.  
  
  
JD grinned from beside the water cooler and continued. "2..."   
  
  
"1..." Buck sing-songed, turning towards the office door.   
  
  
The door burst open and Ezra walked out, brushing his jacket off, though there was no need; it was impeccable, as always. Behind him, some high pitched growling sounds could be heard, followed by the door slamming and then a muffled litany of curses.   
  
  
"I take it that it went well, Ez?" Buck asked, pleasantly, pausing in his flirting to let Linda take a phone call.  
  
  
Ezra dismissed his teammate with a wave of his hand. "It went even better than I had hoped. Oh... I am to inform you gentlemen that Mister Tanner is next, and that he is to bring a cup of water and three aspirin with him."  
  
  
Nathan looked concerned. "If he's hurtin' that bad he should probably see a doctor." The healer stopped and glared. "Unless ya'll drove him to suicide."  
  
  
Chris snorted. "He'll probably be there once Buck and Vin go in," the leader muttered, before tossing the Golf Digest he had picked up back onto a table with no small measure of disgust. "I hate golf," he stated, off handedly.  
  
  
Nathan looked at him. "See? Chris is proof. Ya'll drive people insane." He motioned to Larabee, who had picked up a Redbook magazine to peruse next. Apparently, Nathan's attempt to get them to loosen up on the doctor failed miserably, because they all, save Chris, who was studying a perfume sample in the magazine, and Josiah, who was still sleeping, flashed him their broadest smiles. He sighed and leaned back, picking up a House and Garden magazine. He had tried. That was worth something.  
  
  
After the sounds from inside Preston's office pattered off, Chris looked up at Vin, watching him snicker and loosen the non-dairy creamer lid so he could pour a packet of hot cocoa into it. "Vin."  
  
  
Spinning around, the sniper looked at his leader. "Yeah?"  
  
  
Chris pointed to the office with his hand, not taking his eyes off of the 'summer grill recipe' he had found near the back of the magazine. Nate took out his aspirin bottle and tossed it to Vin as he made his way away from the mini bar. The tracker caught it and used his other hand to grab the cup of water JD had filled for him.   
  
  
He leaned over and looked at the article Nathan was reading in Home and Garden, even as Vin strolled towards Preston's office. "I feel like barbequing this weekend."  
  
  
Nathan nodded absently, hearing Chris, but not looking up from his article on gingerbread cookies. "Yeah," he agreed. "I'll bring dessert."  
  
  
Inkblots: With Vin  
  
  
"Mister Tanner, please...have a seat." Preston, head in his hands, staring down at his lap, greeted Vin half-heartedly, and waved him towards the armchair without looking up.   
  
  
Vin sat down, studying to doctor for a second. "Somethin' wrong, doc?"  
  
  
"No. Yes. I don't know. Tell me something, Vin...can I call you Vin?" He stopped and waited until Tanner nodded tentatively. Satisfied, the doctor continued. "Would you mind, if it wasn't too much trouble, telling me if Ezra always feels the need to get people to believe every word of his flowery jargon and..."  
  
  
Vin snorted, interrupting the half-spawned tirade. "Hell yes."  
  
  
"I see. Are those for me?" Preston reached for the aspirin, looking at the pills as if they were ambrosia.   
  
  
Tanner handed them over, taking a second to look concerned for the doctor. Taking in the standing on end hair and the loosened tie, the man was a far cry from the perfectly dressed vision of proficiency they had encountered on day one. But, Vin supposed, Ezra Standish could do that to a man. Watching the psychologist down all three pills with water, Vin waited patiently until he was ready. After another minute or so, Preston looked relatively composed. "So, what'er we doin' today?" Tanner asked, leaning back into the chair casually.  
  
  
"You mean they haven't told you?" The doctor was skeptical at that.  
  
  
Vin shrugged. "JD said you was showin' us some pictures and they were all black. I figured he was lyin'."  
  
  
"Why would he lie about something like that?"  
  
  
"'Cause who in the holy heck would want to look at pictures that are all black?"  
  
  
The psychologist looked uncomfortable, fidgeting with the inkblot cards laying face down on his lap. Vin studied the man's reaction, and took in his silence. He groaned. "Aw, doc, tell me it ain't so."  
  
  
"Um, I'm afraid so, Mister Tanner. We're doing the inkblot test."  
  
  
"Well then you know my answer. It'll look black."  
  
  
"No, it's not the color that matters. It's what you see in the form." Preston took a card and flashed it at Vin, as if proving a point. "What does this look like?"  
  
  
"Job."  
  
  
"Er, a job? What job?"  
  
  
"Job. Chris's horse.  
  
  
Satisfied that they were on the right track, Preston took a note of the card number and Vin's reaction to it. "And, would you mind elaborating? What part of it looks like this, Job, to you?"  
  
  
"The black part."  
  
  
"It's all black, Vin."  
  
  
"Yeah. Job's black."  
  
  
"I thought I said the color doesn't matter."  
  
  
"Well that's what I see when you show me that card."  
  
  
"Doesn't the general shape do anything for you?" the psychiatrist asked hopefully. He indicated to the picture with the eraser end of his pencil. "Doesn't this look like a tail, perhaps?"  
  
  
"Job has a tail."  
  
  
"Yes, I'm sure he does."  
  
  
"So then why're you pointing this out?"  
  
  
"Um, horses don't have tails like this, generally. I was thinking, perhaps, a lizard?"  
  
  
"Lizards are green. Job's tail is black."  
  
  
"But color doesn't matter. Don't you think you could see a lizard in the shape of this blob, Vin?"  
  
  
Vin studied it for a moment. "Can't say that I do."  
  
  
The Doctor sighed. "Why not?"  
  
  
"Because I ain't ever seen a black lizard. A few brown ones, maybe even a red one."  
  
  
"Color doesn't matter!!"  
  
  
"Well maybe it matters to me."  
  
  
"Pretend you don't see color, Vin. **Then** what would you see?"  
  
  
"Nothing."  
  
  
Exasperated, the doctor put the picture down and adjusted his glasses. "And why, pray tell, would you not see anything if there wasn't color?"  
  
  
"'Cause then everything would be white. An' your picture would be a white blob on white paper, and that'd just be completely white."  
  
  
"What about if you just saw the black outline of the ink?"  
  
  
"Well, then I'd see Job again, 'cause I'd obviously be able ta see black, too."  
  
  
"What if it was green?"  
  
  
"The blob, or Job?"  
  
  
"Er, the blob."  
  
  
"Well, then, I'd probably see grass."  
  
  
"But it doesn't look anything like grass."  
  
  
Vin shrugged. "Grass is green."  
  
  
"Yes, it is. But the inkblot isn't green."  
  
  
"I know it's not green! But you told me to pretend that it was."  
  
  
"In hopes that you'd see **something** resembling what the picture is actually supposed to be."  
  
  
"A lizard?"  
  
  
"Yes!"  
  
  
"If they wanted a picture of a lizard, why didn't they just take a picture of a lizard in the first place? Then I coulda looked at it right away and been like, 'that's a lizard, doc,' instead of arguing with you over what colors I do or don't see."  
  
  
"It's not exactly a lizard, it's more, something resembling something that looks like a lizard. And we didn't take a picture of a lizard because that's beside the point of the exercise."  
  
  
"Then what **is** the point of the exercise?"  
  
  
"Oh God, this is getting repetitive," Preston mumbled, rubbing his temples. "The point of the exercise is to gauge you way of thinking.  
  
  
"Well, I thought it was Job. That's the way I was thinking."  
  
  
"Yes, but it wasn't supposed to be Job."  
  
  
"Who the hell are you to tell me what an' how to think in the first place?"  
  
  
"Your way of thinking just isn't normal, is what I'm saying."  
  
  
"So?"  
  
  
"What do you mean, 'so'? Aren't you slightly worried? You could very well be insane!!!!!" he shouted, waving his arms frantically.   
  
  
"I ain't worried 'bout bein' nuts, but I am gettin' kinda scared." The sniper eyed the psychiatrist warily. "You havin' an episode?"  
  
  
"No, I'm not having an episode. I'm having a breakdown."  
  
  
"You should see a doctor about that. Get 'em to gauge your way of thinkin' with pointless words 'n funny black pictures where there ain't nothing to see in 'em but apparently, you're supposed to see a certain somethin' in 'em anyway."  
  
  
"Tell me why you can't see a lizard. Or something to that effect. Maybe a dragon? An insect, perhaps?"  
  
  
"I thought you were the one supposed to do the figurin' out."  
  
  
"Well I can't do it. I go over all the information you boys give me, and all I can find is that you're all nuts. Which I think you are all doing to me on purpose. I mean, how could 7 completely insane men be the most successful team in an entire agency?"  
  
  
Vin leaned in, the air in the office taking a consiprational tone. "Let me letcha in on a little secret, doc." He waved the man over with his hand. "Come closer. C'mon. Chris is the only one of us that bites."  
  
  
Preston leaned in, paying rapt attention, and making a mental note about the biting comment.  
  
  
"The reason anyone's ever good at anythin' is cause they're a little bit cuckoo. To work for the government, and ta be good at it on top of that, well... ya gotta be all 'round psycho. That's the key ta bein' a federal agent."  
  
  
"So you want me to blame your success and my headache on the fact that you're required to be insane?"  
  
  
"Yep."  
  
  
"It makes sense...it really does." Preston laughed to himself and fiddled with his pencil with both hands. "In fact, it makes so much sense it explains why we have the president we have, as well as the IRS." He seemed to be developing a twitch lately, along with a slew of nervous habits. "Erm... could you send in Mister Jackson next? Make sure he brings his painkillers."  
  
  
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~  
Inkblots TBC in Part 3b!!!! (Don't you hate these letters? I could make you wait to finish this part all the way up to a part 3z. Not that I would. It would be entirely my muse's fault if I had to. :P) Anyway, I hope this was remotely funny. I think my muse's mind started wandering halfway through, so I apologize. :P 


	4. Chapter 3: Inkblots (Part 3b)

Inkblots: With Nathan  
  
  
  
"Nathan!! Do you perchance, have anything stronger than aspirin?"  
  
  
"I don't think it'd be safe givin' ya anymore medication, Doctor Preston. You thought about seeing a doctor yourself, for these migraines?"  
  
  
"Strangely, I've only been having them since Monday."  
  
  
"Oh." Nathan thought about it for a second. "Hmmm... that's two days already with them then, isn't it? I think you're probably just suffering from an overdose of Ezra and Vin, doc. If you go out and shoot something, you'll feel better. It always works for Chris."  
  
  
"I sincerely hope you mean he goes to the shooting range."  
  
  
"Actually, I was talking about busts. But, I'm sure he goes to the shooting range too, when there aren't any criminals to apprehend."  
  
  
"Disturbing."  
  
  
"Well, I didn' say ya **had** to do it. And don't be so judgmental of Chris. He don't shoot to kill, less he gotta. Or less Ezra pissed him off royally." Nate paused. "Never mind that last part."  
  
  
"Um, right, Nathan. I suppose you know what we're doing today?"  
  
  
"Er..." Nathan's brow furrowed, as he tried to recall Ezra's exact words. "An inane, archaic, blundering attempt to pass the time without accomplishing anything other than butchering innocent brain cells?"  
  
  
Preston sighed. "Inkblots."  
  
  
"Oh. I should have guessed."  
  
  
"I won't take that as an insult to my methods, Mister Jackson."  
  
  
Nathan looked completely innocent. "So, I'm supposed to tell you what I see, right?"  
  
  
Preston smiled. "Exactly. Shall we get started, then?"  
  
  
He hefted another card; letting Nathan look at it, study it a bit. "Cancer," Nathan responded.   
  
  
"Cancer? What do you mean? Like the astrological sign, or the disease?"  
  
  
"The disease. Like when you take an x-ray, and there's that black spot."  
  
  
"Well technically, this is a black spot, but I don't want you to tell me it looks like another black spot."   
  
  
"I'm not saying it looks like a black spot. I'm saying it looks like cancer."  
  
  
"Which looks like a black spot."  
  
  
"Well, it is a black spot."  
  
  
"But I don't want you to tell me it looks like a black spot. What does it look like, other than a black spot?"  
  
  
"Cancer."  
  
  
"No, Nathan. Tell me what it looks like other than a black spot."  
  
  
"It looks like cancer."  
  
  
"Which is a black spot, on an X-ray."  
  
  
"Yes. That's what it looks like."  
  
  
"A black spot. It **is** a black spot. I just don't want you to tell me that it **looks** like a black spot."  
  
  
"That's why I'm sayin' it looks like cancer."  
  
  
"Which you say looks like a black spot. I don't **want** that. I want you to tell me what shape it takes."  
  
  
"How about a brain tumor?"  
  
  
"Is that another black spot?"  
  
  
"Y..." Nathan paused, reevaluating his problem. "Er...no. No it ain't. It don't look black at all. Brain tumors are...pink?"  
  
  
Preston scowled. "You're just lying to get out of this faster. Brain tumors are black too."  
  
  
"Actually, they're usually red."  
  
  
"I meant on an X-ray."  
  
  
"Well, yeah. I guess it depends on the X-ray. Sometimes they're blue. Or gray."  
  
  
"But they're basically a big blob."  
  
  
"Most of the time."  
  
  
"That's not what I'm looking for Nathan!! I want a shape, a form. Something this blob reminds you of. Pretend it's something in the dark and you have to tell me what it is."  
  
  
"If it were dark, I wouldn't be able to see anything except black."  
  
  
"Okay, bad example. Um...how about this next card? What does the shape of the blob look like?"  
  
  
"Ebola."  
  
  
"Ebola?" Preston was incredulous. "How on earth does it look like Ebola?"  
  
  
"It's stringy and hooked at the end. It looks like Ebola."   
  
  
"Not a snake? A candy cane perhaps?"  
  
  
"More like Ebola to me."  
  
  
"You mean the debilitating virus that turns organs to mush? How could that possibly look like a snake!"  
  
  
"The cells look like that when you photograph 'em!" Nathan protested, not liking how he was being judged for his answers.   
  
  
"Do they also happen to be black?" Preston asked.  
  
  
"Um...depends on what you stain the cells with. And how you photograph it?"  
  
  
"You've seen black stained cells, haven't you?"  
  
  
Nathan shook his head. "I ain't sure. The book I read on Ebola was black and white to begin with."  
  
  
Preston sighed. "Do you not understand me, or are you doing this on purpose, Mister Jackson? I thought perhaps, you'd be the sanest of your comrades. However, I'm beginning to think Mister Standish wins that title, and you have **no** idea how much that thought frightens me..."  
  
  
"Actually, you're startin' to scare me too, doc. You really think Ezra's the most sane?"  
  
  
"Yes! At least he lets me know he does what he does on purpose. He does it because he wants to be flippant and disrespectful. The rest of you really make me believe you don't know any better than to do what you do. It's unnerving."  
  
  
"You're talking like we committed a crime!"  
  
  
"I'm not saying you did. I'm saying I don't understand why you can't grasp this simple concept."  
  
  
"Well now you're talking like we're stupid."  
  
  
"Do you do this on purpose, Mister Jackson?"  
  
  
"Do what?!"  
  
  
"Get offended over everything I say, whether I meant it as a derogatory comment or not?"  
  
  
"It's my prerogative as a minority. Just like it's Ezra's prerogative to be an ass."  
  
  
"Because he's southern?"  
  
  
"There you go making biased remarks again. I meant just 'cause he's Ezra. You just offended half of the country!"  
  
  
"So I'm not allowed to assume you're making a bigoted remark, but you're allowed to assume that I am?"   
  
  
"Yes. See, if you were southern, you'd be able to say that and get away with it. But you ain't, so you keep your mouth shut."  
  
  
"I thought you of all people would object to inequality in any form."   
  
  
"What do you mean, 'me of all people'? Was that a remark against my being black?"  
  
  
"No! That's not what I meant."  
  
  
"Than what did you mean?"  
  
  
"I meant that as an African American you should..."  
  
  
"See? You did mean it because of my race. And who are you to tell me what I should or shouldn't do?"  
  
  
"In part, yes, but I didn't mean it in a derogatory fashion. And I wasn't going to tell you what to do."  
  
  
"That's still discrimination."   
  
  
"It's not a negative form of discrimination. I just think..."  
  
  
"You think there's a positive form of discrimination?" Nathan was incredulous. "What kind of loony are you?"  
  
  
"I...I..."  
  
  
But Nathan would have none of it. He was in a fire now, full of righteous indignation and spitting a storm. "When my ancestors came to the new world hundreds of years ago on ships from Africa..."  
  
  
  
Chris looked up from his article on brown being the new black at the sound of muffled shouting from Preston's office. He looked at his watch. Five minutes? Nathan was just getting warmed up. Sighing, the team leader glared at Ezra, JD and Vin, who were fiddling the television set on the far side of the reception area. "Josiah, Buck, get ready. Nate's already lecturin' him," he ordered the boys. He wondered if either had heard him, Josiah still asleep and Buck still chatting up Linda at her desk. "Ezra, what the fuck are you three doing to the TV?"  
  
  
"We're gonna pirate cable," JD grinned. He yelped when Vin smacked him.  
  
  
"Well go on and **tell** him, why dontcha, kid?!" the sniper hissed.   
  
  
"Ow!! Sorry, geesh."   
  
  
Chris quirked an eyebrow. "Can you guys get the Cooking Channel?"   
  
  
"That has yet to be determined, Mister Larabee," Ezra responded, peeking out from the mess of wires connected to the back of the television. "However I do think I managed to tap into the security cameras."  
  
  
Vin grinned. "Hey, ain't there a women's yoga class downstairs?"  
  
  
"Yes, I believe so."   
  
  
"Cool."  
  
  
Chris looked at his watch again. Nathan had been going for seven minutes now. He turned back to his fashion article and decided he'd send Josiah in there after Preston had had ten minutes worth of Nathan's righteousness. He turned the page in his article. "Hey Buck?" he asked. "How do you think I'd look with a brown duster?"   
  
Inkblots: With Josiah  
  
  
  
Josiah waited until Nathan had to stop to take a breath before knocking on the door. "My turn yet, Nate?" He waited a beat before turning the knob and opening the door, peeking inside the office, where Nathan had ceased, finger still in the air, standing across from a very frightened looking psychologist.   
  
  
Nathan stopped. "Is it?"  
  
  
Josiah looked at his watch. "It is if we want time to go to lunch before getting back to work."  
  
  
"Oh, okay." Nathan lowered his hand and turned to regard Preston. "I take it you've learned your lesson?"  
  
  
The man nodded vigorously. Satisfied, Nathan headed towards the door, thanking Josiah as he held it for him. "Do you feel like some Cajun for lunch?"  
  
  
"I think Vin had planned on taking us to that Texas BBQ restaurant he likes so much," Sanchez responded truthfully.   
  
  
Nathan shrugged. "I just got a hunkering for some southern food all of a sudden," he admitted. "Can't imagine why."  
  
  
"Nope, guess not," the preacher's son responded with a wry smirk before shutting the door behind him.   
  
  
"Mister Sanchez, oh thank God," Preston muttered shakily. The older man realized the psychiatrist was on the verge of tears.   
  
  
"Long day, doctor?" he asked, voice soothing and sympathetic.   
  
  
"Like you wouldn't believe."  
  
  
The agent's eyebrow quirked and he looked half amused by the young man's comment. "Doctor Preston, I work with them."  
  
  
As if to emphasize the point, a loud, "Yahoo...BEND baby! Hey Ez, can you get that thing to zoom in?" echoed through the door, followed by a round of Buck's whoops and Nate telling the ladies man that his comments were sexist.   
  
  
"Yes, I see your point," he responded as he adjusted his glasses. "Um, we're doing inkblots."  
  
  
"So I've been told."   
  
  
The doctor waited for the snide retort on the validity of such an exercise. Josiah looked at him expectantly. When he was certain none was coming, the young man resumed. "All right then. I'll show you a picture, and you're to tell me what it looks like to you. Okay?"  
  
  
"Sounds fine."  
  
  
"All right, what do you see here?" He picked up a board and showed it to Josiah.  
  
  
Sanchez studied it, furrowing his bushy brow. "It looks like a butterfly."   
  
  
The doctor was stunned. "Really? You really think it looks like a butterfly?"  
  
  
Josiah nodded. "That's what I see, anyway."  
  
  
Preston didn't know whether to be elated or suspicious. "You're sure?"  
  
  
"Positive."   
  
  
"Not a horse, or a post civil war town? Or cancer?"  
  
  
The ATF agent's brow furrowed. "Cancer? The astrological sign or the disease?"  
  
  
"Um, never mind. So, a butterfly, correct?"  
  
  
"Yup."  
  
  
"How about...this one?" he asked, hopefully.   
  
  
Sanchez looked from the picture to the doctor, back to the picture. "A man with a briefcase."  
  
  
"You're certain?"  
  
  
"Doctor Preston, is there something wrong?"  
  
  
"No, nothing's wrong Josiah. This is just... normal."  
  
  
"Isn't that good?"  
  
  
"Yes, yes it is. All right then. Next picture. What do you see?"  
  
  
"A field of flowers."  
  
  
"And this one?"  
  
  
"A forest."  
  
  
"This last one?"  
  
  
"Two people hugging."  
  
  
"That's remarkable."  
  
  
"What?"  
  
  
"Do you realize that every one of your answers is the exact label I have on the back of these cards?"   
  
  
Josiah looked surprised. "Well, isn't that something? Does that mean we're done?"  
  
  
"Yes! Yes, we're done. Thank you, Josiah. Thank you more than you'll ever know. Um, please send in Mister Wilmington now," he instructed the departing agent. Well, it couldn't have gotten any worse after Nathan, perhaps it was time for things to look up?  
  
  
Inkblots: With Buck  
  
  
"Hey doc, you're lookin' a lot happier than Vin said ya were."  
  
  
"Yes, Mister Wilmington. My session with Josiah was extremely refreshing. I now have faith in the future of mankind again."  
  
  
"Er, good to know. So, I hear we're lookin' at a colorblind kindergartener's finger paintins?"  
  
  
Preston sighed. "Let me guess. That one was from, Mister Tanner?"  
  
  
Buck grinned. "Well, looks like you are getting' to gauging our way of thinkin'. How'd ya know?"  
  
  
"Not as eloquent as Mister Standish would have put it, but just as caustic," Preston replied absently. "Shall we begin, then?"  
  
  
"Finger paintin'?"  
  
  
"No, we're not finger painting. We're doing inkblots. I show you a picture, and you tell me what it looks like."  
  
  
"If it's a picture, won't it just look like whatever it's a picture of?"  
  
  
"It's an inkblot. You're supposed to tell me what it is by the shape of it."  
  
  
"What?"  
  
  
Preston sighed. "Um... look, here. For example..." he flipped up one of the cards. "What does this look like?"  
  
  
Buck studied the picture for a second, looked at the doctor, then back to the picture. He grinned. "It looks like a cat."  
  
  
The psychologist's eyebrows shot up. "That's what you see?"  
  
  
Buck saw all the hope in the man's eyes and decided he didn't have the heart to lie to him. He was nothing, if not an honest government worker. He bit back a snicker. "Do you really want the truth about that, doc?"  
  
  
"Truth? You mean to tell me that you're lying about seeing a cat?"  
  
  
"Well..." Buck paused. "What I really see? I see a big black blob. Maybe a tail. But, I can see what it's supposed to be cuz the labels on the back of yer card are reflecting offa your glasses. It says that big black hunka shit is supposed to be a cat."  
  
  
"You mean... you can read the labels on the cards through my glasses?" Preston asked, horrified.   
  
  
Buck nodded. "Yup. Light catches it jest the right way when you hold it like that," he explained, tilting his head a little bit. "Perfect reflection."   
  
  
"So that entire time..." The doctor sighed, hands shaking slightly. "I knew it! I knew it was too good to be true!! I thought he was normal!! But noooo... I suppose none of you are sane, are you? None of you can even **try** to be."  
  
  
Buck snorted. "I ain't gonna comment."  
  
  
"Do you know that your oldest member all out lied to me?"  
  
  
"How do you know that? He coulda not seen the cheat sheet at all."  
  
  
"He did it to frustrate me."  
  
  
"I thought ya felt better after talkin' to him. How do you know he did it to be ornery?"   
  
  
"Because all of you don't care. If Mister Sanchez could see the answers, that means all of your friends could as well. They've just been messing with me all day! And he's no different."  
  
  
"Guess it beats the cable Ezra got entertainment wise," Buck chuckled.   
  
  
"I'm going to ignore that comment, because it is disturbing on **so** many levels, Mister Wilmington." The psychologist paused to take a breath, and calm himself, before his voice rose too many octaves more. "Can we just finish this? Please?"  
  
  
"**Now** we're on the same page. Let's get on with it."  
  
  
Preston removed his glasses and took a moment to pinch the bridge of his nose, easing the tension there. He pulled up a card. "What does this look like, Mister Wilmington?"  
  
  
Buck opened his mouth to reply.  
  
  
"Before you answer, please humor me and avoid saying "black blob" or something to that effect?"  
  
  
Buck's jaw snapped shut. "Uh, guess I'll have to think on it some then," he admitted, studying the picture.   
  
  
"Yes. Do that."  
  
  
The agent snapped his fingers after a second longer of thinking. "It looks jest like Linda's..."  
  
  
Preston's eyes widened in horror and he automatically slammed his hands over his ears. "Mister Wilmington I refuse to listen to your lewd comments about my secretary!!" he shouted, glaring at the man.  
  
  
Buck looked wounded. "I was gonna say tattoo!!! The one on her arm!!! Geez!"  
  
  
The doctor looked at Wilmington in irritation, feathers quite ruffled. "I sincerely hope so. Buck, this picture was supposed to be a ladybug. Do you see why that is?"  
  
  
"If it's a lady bug, why didn't they just take a picture of a ladybug? Then I coulda been all, 'that's definitely a lady bug' instead of looking at a big ink stain. You know what? It doesn't look like Linda's tattoo. It looks like a spill JD got on the carpet back in the apartment. The one that wouldn't come out short of cuttin' the rug off."   
  
  
"Why are you all like this? Look!" Preston pulled out a handful of cards from the discard pile. "This was Mister Tanner's. He said it looked like Job. And this one? Mister Standish took the better part of fifteen minutes explaining in minute detail, why it looks like a frontier town. This one? Mister Jackson said it was cancer." He tossed all three cards on the floor in front of him. "They are not cancer!! Or Job, or a town. Everyone I've ever used these on knows that. Why don't you men know that?"   
  
  
Buck made to answer, but Preston stopped him with his hand. "No. I'm going to go and get something to drink, and use the facilities to gather myself. When I get back, I want Mister Larabee in here. Not shooting, or biting anything."  
  
  
Wilmington watched as the psychologist marched out of the office, through the reception area, and out of the clinic. The agent was a little disappointed when the man didn't shut the door to the clinic behind him. It would have been great to see Ezra and Vin's little trap work, especially after that particular tirade.   
  
  
Shrugging, Buck picked up one of the cards Preston had thrown on the floor in his fit of rage. "Hey!" Buck grinned as he turned it around in his hand. "This one looks like a lizard!"   
  
Inkblots: With Chris  
  
  
Doctor Preston returned from his sojourn to the bathroom 5 minutes later, trying his best to look composed in the face of chaos. He noted that Linda was sweeping up the remains of a shattered flower vase, looking at Vin and JD in annoyance.   
  
  
"Ah..." he made a small noise, indicating that he was back.  
  
  
"Chris is waitin' on ya, might not be safe to keep 'im that way," Buck advised, flipping the channels on the TV.   
  
  
The psychologist nodded, realizing he didn't want to know when his building had suddenly gotten VH1. He strolled through, giving an apologetic look to his secretary, before closing the door to his office behind him, leaving her alone with six of the seven members yet again.   
  
  
Chris Larabee looked up at him as he stepped into the office, relaxed in the armchair, and looking for all the world like he owned the place. Preston noted it seemed darker, smaller, less familiar, and more foreboding. He swallowed uncomfortably and sat down in his leather recliner. Funny how this office had seemed so very spacious one moment and next, he felt all too close to the man called Chris Larabee. "Um, good morning, Chris. Today, we're doing a..."  
  
  
"I didn't say you could call me Chris."  
  
  
"Oh, um, my apologies, Mister Larabee. May I call you Chris?"  
  
  
"No."  
  
  
"Okay. Well, we're doing inkblots today. I'll show you a picture, and you tell me what it looks like to you."  
  
  
Chris's eyebrows narrowed. "The government pays you to do this sort of thing?"  
  
  
Somehow, the psychiatrist couldn't find himself to take on annoyed tone with this man.   
"Um, yes. They do."  
  
  
"Well I obviously got into the wrong kinda work then. I could make a fortune showing people stupid pictures and get paid instead of busting my ass getting shot at every other day."  
  
  
"If you're implying that my work isn't as important as yours..."  
  
  
"Did I say that?"  
  
  
"Um, no."  
  
  
The supervising agent of Team 7 leaned back, as if that explained everything.   
  
  
"So... we should get started. Um, what does this look like to you?" He flipped up a card, holding it by his head, away from his glasses.  
  
  
"A bullet hole."  
  
  
"I should have seen that one coming, I suppose. Mister Larabee, just because this is a big black splotch, it doesn't mean I want you to tell me that it's a big black splotch. I want you to tell me what **else** it looks like."  
  
  
"It's a pink and orange polka dotted elephant."   
  
  
"Mister Larabee, please don't just say any random thing because you're annoyed."  
  
  
"It's better than me shooting you."  
  
  
"I agree with that. And I understand that you might not see a point in this exercise, but trust me, I'm doing this for a reason. I just need you to tell me what this..." the doctor circled the splotch with his hand, "looks like."  
  
  
"A bullet hole."  
  
  
"Just because it's black?"  
  
  
Chris's eyes narrowed. "What's wrong with black?"  
  
  
"Nothing. Really."  
  
  
Chris glared. He knew a liar when he heard one. Leaning back into his chair to get comfortable, he stared at the psychologist, until Preston coughed uncomfortably and turned away. "Um...moving on. What do you see in this one?"  
  
  
Chris continued to glare.  
  
  
Preston waited for a few minutes. Larabee didn't seem intent on answering. "Uh...okay, we can skip this one. How about, this one?"  
  
  
Chris crossed his arms.   
  
  
Preston put his card down. "Mister Larabee, we have a good 15 minutes left in today's session. Do you really think you can sit here the entire exercise and not say a word?"  
  
  
Larabee's expression didn't change.  
  
  
"Fine. I'll wait you out." Preston crossed his arms in reply and looked at Chris, waiting. He'd done this before, with a particularly spoiled four-year-old. His patience usually won out.  
  
**Five minutes later**  
  
  
Preston fidgeted uncomfortably in his chair, as the two combatants sat in silence. The only sound that echoed in the room was the clicking of Preston's wall clock and the occasional crash and grunt from the reception area. He tapped his pencil on the arm of his chair for a bit, making a tapping noise, hoping to annoy Larabee out of his silent treatment.   
  
  
Chris smirked to himself on the inside, though his mask of cold indifference didn't crack to the least physically. The doctor thought tapping a pencil would get him? He snorted internally. He'd dealt with Ezra's rants about ruined clothing, Josiah and Nathan's debates on the ethics of powerful governments versus those of the individual, Vin's whining about itchy stitches, and JD telling Buck to leave him alone with Buck teasing the kid about a date with Casey all the while. All in the same room. At the same time. For an hour. Chris Larabee was a pillar of stability. He only had to imagine shooting each and every one of them to keep himself busy. He smiled to himself and wondered how Preston would look with a hole in his ass.   
  
  
**10 Minutes later**  
  
  
"Mister Larabee! Please just **try** and cooperate?! Please? For the sake of my sanity, just tell me what you see. I **know** you think this is stupid, but humor me?"  
  
  
Chris rather liked Preston groveling on the floor at his feet, begging that he cooperate and finish the exercise off. It made him feel all-powerful. He continued to stare straight ahead.   
  
  
"Mister Larabee? This is unhealthy. You could become comatose. Okay, I'm not **that** kind of doctor, but please. We're almost done for the day, and look; we only have a few minutes left! All you have to do is cooperate! Look at **this** picture. Just tell me what you see?" The psychiatrist held up the last card in his pile. "How about just this **one**?"   
  
  
Chris pursed his lips as if he was going to think about it, but didn't move to say anything. The silence was driving Preston insane.  
  
  
"Mister Larabee?! I'm sorry about what I said earlier, and the tone I used. I'm sorry if I offended you in any way. Now will you please just do the exercise with me?"   
  
  
Chris's eyes flitted to the clock. He watched the seconds count down until the hour. 3...2...1...  
  
  
As if on cue, Buck poked his head into the door. "'Ey, Chris, we leaving or what?" he asked, anxious.  
  
  
Chris got up out of the chair and headed towards the door without a word, leaving a stunned Doctor in his wake. Buck grinned and let his old friend out, watching him head straight for the clinic door. The ladies man turned back to the doctor and the card the young man was still holding up. The ladies man studied it a moment before smiling largely. "Chris would probably say that it looks like a bullet hole."  
  
  
*slaps Muse* That took long enough, didn't it? Well, we'll see about the next part. I haven't even started it yet and my muse would rather be playing video games. LOL But enjoy this part, in any case. 


	5. Chapter 4: Group Honesty

A/N: I realize I'm what, like, a year between posting chapters? I apologize…my muse completely lost focus, and this story was a casualty. However, on getting lots of positive feedback (see? It DOES make all the difference in the world! Feed your starving authors! LOL) I decided to try and grind out to the end since I was so close already. So, I have this next part. The Group Honesty Exercise. While I concede that it's EXTREMELY lame in parts (MOST parts, for the matter) it's really the best I could do. *Sigh* I apologize to everyone. Humor was never my strong suit. :) But as always, any and all feedback is welcome. Flames are used justification to start different stories that won't annoy my muse as much. *G*  
Part Four: Group Honesty Exercise  
  
  
  
9:15 AM, Thurs., June 21st, 2001   
  
  
**(From the notes of Dr. Samuel F. Preston)  
  
  
Today is the fourth session I have with Mister Larabee's team. One more day. You have no idea how the thought comforts me. Just one more day with these gentlemen, and I will be free to write my theories and turn in my notes and recordings to the ATF and Judge Travis. I will be done with them, and hopefully, I will never see them again in my life. I know this is a terrible thing to say, but after the sabotage to my reception area yesterday added on top of all the stress of the previous days, you will understand.   
  
  
To start the list, all of the bottoms to my paper cups were ripped out, a fact I only noticed after I attempted to get water from my cooler and it leaked all over my Italian leather shoes. I checked every cup after that, and I regret to say that the boys were quite thorough. Of course, they didn't see fit to stop there. I thought I was pouring my non-dairy creamer into my coffee later, but it was actually, a mixture of cider powder, hot cocoa mix, orange tea leaves from a tea bag, and coffee grounds. Not only that, I could not find that delightful grill recipe I had planned on using this weekend from one of the office magazines. It has been torn, right out of the book, along with several other recipes. The candy dish on Linda's desk is empty, as were the cabinets that hold our entire supply of extra sweets. There were 10 lb. bags in there, for crying out loud!   
  
  
My TV is also, currently hooked up to receive illegal cable. I can even tap into the security cameras of the lady's yoga class downstairs. There are several pencils imbedded into my ceiling that will not come down, and my carton of orange juice has sweet and low and floating chunks of bagel in it. The best, the best of course, had to be saved for last. When I moved to shut my door behind me for the night, a container of pencil shavings, water, and what looked to be a mixture of Linda's favorite strawberry yogurt and cottage cheese came splattering onto my head.   
  
  
I have decided to forget about getting into the team's minds, as I have lost interest to endeavor such a thing for the sake of self-preservation. I think going into their heads is a legitimate thing to fear, if one considers their personalities. I will go ahead with the honesty exercises, and attempt to see what sort of relationship they have developed with each other. The basis of the exercise requires them to be blatantly honest, which I think will be easy. I just pray to God that Mister Larabee doesn't see fit to shoot any of his men in my presence. I took care to prepare as much as possible for this exercise yesterday, however I lack a few essentials. Unfortunately, Kevlar vests are on heavy back order and I was too busy to purchase that Oxford Thesaurus last night, as I was taking my suit to the dry cleaners. They charge exorbitant prices to remove cottage cheese.**  
  
  
Group Honesty Exercise  
  
  
  
The seven ATF agents were arranged in a circle around Doctor Preston's office, much as they had been on day one. The doctor sat with Chris and Josiah on either side of him. "All right, gentlemen, this is a communication exercise. I'm going to ask you questions, and you're to be completely honest with me and your teammates so that…"  
  
  
"Is this another scheme to gauge are way of thinking?" Vin asked, before the doctor could finish.  
  
  
"No, it isn't, Mister Tanner. I've given up on that all together."  
  
  
"Oh. Good."  
  
  
"Yes. Can I finish, or are there any other questions?" he asked, eyes flitting across the table. The group sat silently before him, no one saying a word. He smiled and took a breath. "Good. Now, the point of this exercise…"  
  
  
"So there **is** a point, this time?" Ezra interrupted.   
  
  
Preston shot an annoyed look at the southern undercover agent. "Yes, there is a point. Are there **any** other questions I can take before I go on?" He waited for some smart-ass comment or a noncommittal grunt from any of them.   
  
  
Silence again. He coughed and straightened up. "As I was saying, the point of this exercise is to see what you think of each other and how you think each other contributes…"  
  
  
"Like, charity?" JD asked.  
  
  
"No, not like charity, JD. If you had **let** me finish, I was ready to say 'contributes to the group.' Now can we get on with it?"   
  
  
They all looked at him expectantly. "You're positive? No more questions? You're **all** ready to begin?" Silence greeted him. "All right then…why don't we…"  
  
  
"Wait, what the fuck are we doing again?" Buck asked.   
  
  
Preston sighed. "Just answer the questions I ask you. Now, are there **any** other questions while we're at it?"  
  
  
All seven men were quiet, and Preston pulled out his notebook and pen and prepared. "All right, then let's get…"  
  
  
"What kind of questions are you gonna ask?" Vin piped up.  
  
  
He sighed wearily. "All sorts of questions. Is there anything else?" He looked around. "Nothing? You're all absolutely positive?" Still nothing. "Sure this time?" Silence. "You're not just waiting for me to start talking so you can interrupt me?" Quiet. "Okay then. Mister…"  
  
  
"Do we have to answer in front of everyone?" Nathan questioned all of a sudden.   
  
  
Preston growled somewhere low in his throat. "Yes. Are we ready?" Everyone nodded. "All right. Mister Jackson, who on your team do you look up to the most, or who would be the most likely candidate?"  
  
  
"Josiah."  
  
  
"And why's that?"  
  
  
"Because he's the only one taller than me."  
  
  
Preston groaned inwardly. It was starting already, wasn't it? He knew Nathan Jackson was a smart man. He knew he could understand the concepts he was throwing out at him. Why couldn't he just play along? "No, I meant who do you most admire on your team. Not physically look up at."  
  
  
"Ezra."  
  
  
Preston blinked. "Mister Standish? Are you serious?"  
  
  
Nathan growled. "What is it with you always questioning my answers? What's the point in asking in the first place if all I'm going to get is patronized when I reply? And who are you to judge Ezra anyway?"  
  
  
The psychiatrist backed down before another lecture on basic civil rights started, much like yesterday. "Um, my apologies. Why don't you tell us why you admire Ezra the most?"  
  
  
"'Cause he's pissed off Chris ten times more than the rest of us and he's still in one piece."  
  
  
"Yes, I suppose that's respectable," Preston drawled.  
  
  
"Yeah, well, from what I heard you were on hands and knees, on the verge of tears yesterday beggin' Chris to cooperate. I wouldn't use that tone of sarcasm if I was you," Nate shot back.  
  
  
Chris didn't say anything about yesterday. Preston was used to it, he really was.   
  
  
"Well, it's just that that's not exactly the answer I was looking for, Nathan."  
  
  
"Is that a derogatory remark against Ezra?"  
  
  
"No… no, of course not. I would never want to offend him."  
  
  
Jackson's eyes narrowed. "Why? 'Cause he's white?"  
  
  
"No! I didn't mean that. I meant, because, he's um… too crafty for me to want to use sarcasm with him."  
  
  
"So you think you can use it with the rest of us?"  
  
  
"No! Please, Mister Jackson, I meant no such thing. I probably should have said he's a sly son of a bitch."  
  
  
Nathan looked satisfied. "See? That would have worked."  
  
  
Chris growled from his seat at the doctor. "Don't insult my men!" he warned, eyes flashing.  
  
  
"Thank you, Mister…"  
  
  
"Shut up, Ezra. He was right, you are a sly son of a bitch."  
  
  
Preston was puzzled. "Then why aren't I allowed to say it if it's true?"  
  
  
Chris glowered. "Why? 'Cause I said so. You wanna argue?"  
  
  
"No. No, I don't. I really don't." He twitched nervously. "Um, Mister Tanner! What is the most annoying thing about any one of your teammates?"  
  
  
"Just one thing?" Vin asked, quirking a brow.  
  
  
"Yes, if you think you can pick out the one that annoys you most."  
  
  
"The way Ezra rolls up his trash before throwing it away."  
  
  
Ezra snorted. "With all the garbage you bring into the office? If I didn't compact my trash our corner would be overridden with Twix wrappers and Big Mac boxes!"  
  
  
The psychologist looked desperate. "You mean that's the most annoying thing about him to you? Not the fact that he's a pompous ass or a lying, conniving smooth talker?"   
  
  
"Hey!" Nathan and Chris stated simultaneously. "Don't talk about my men like that."  
  
  
"You've known him for three days! What gives you the right to pass judgment on him?!"   
  
  
Preston shrank back under the barrage. "I'm sorry, that was uncalled for. Um… Mister Dunne?"  
  
  
"Yeah?"  
  
  
"If you could do one thing as well as or better than any of your teammates, what would it be."  
  
  
"I already can," JD shrugged.   
  
  
"I mean, like, a talent, or a trait, or a way of handling things that you yourself don't have already."  
  
  
JD thought about this for a second. "Um… I wish I had Ezra's hair."  
  
  
"Why?" Buck laughed.  
  
  
The kid shook his head, tossing his long bangs away from his face. "'Cause his hair is always neat and it never falls into his face like mine does," JD huffed, looking upwards at the thick black strands on his head.  
  
  
"Oh this is wonderful. When the government asks me what drives the most successful team in the entire agency, I can tell them it's hair envy. Perfect. Just perfect."  
  
  
"I don't like your tone, doctor," Chris growled, low in his throat. "You wish you had Ezra's hair."  
  
  
"Do you?"  
  
  
The leader snorted. "No."  
  
  
"Mister Larabee, may I be so bold as to inquire about this double standard you seem to advertise, intentionally or not?"  
  
  
"**You're** calling Chris a hypocrite?" Nathan asked incredulously.   
  
  
"He's calling me a hypocrite?" Chris asked upon Nathan's exclamation, eyes narrowing.   
  
  
"I believe he is," Ezra responded. "What exactly, brought on this finger pointing, Mister Preston?"  
  
  
"Don't pretend like you haven't seen it. Mister Larabee has practically been screaming it since the moment we got here. He can do some things, but he doesn't allow others to do the same thing. He acts like he's the king of the world! Haven't you noticed?"  
  
  
"Someone's watched Titanic a few too many times," JD muttered to Buck, shaking his head.  
  
  
Preston growled. "I only watched that movie once, Mister Dunne. I can guarantee that I'm not quoting it. I just… why do you let Chris get away with that?"  
  
  
Buck snorted. "**You** wanna tell him he can't?" the ladies man motioned to his oldest friend.  
  
  
Chris grinned like a shark to help emphasize the point. Preston drew back visibly. "I suppose you have a point."  
  
  
"Are we going to be doing anything constructive today, Doctor, or do you wish to continue this exhilarating game of 'let's see how fast one can get shot with the right type of provocation'?"  
  
  
"Mister Standish, I most certainly do not want to get shot. And I do have something constructive planned. I had hoped it would go over well, considering the data I've compiled from our previous sessions, but I should have known you seven would attempt to make this difficult."   
  
  
"Young man, I don't think you should be so condescending," Josiah piped up. "The purpose of this experiment is to gather data. Now, don't you think, as odd as it may be, that Ezra's flagrant disregard for your authority, Nathan's lack of faith in your competence, and the rest of our detached, uninterested manners, might all mean something?"  
  
  
"Other than your being nuts, I can't think of anything, Josiah," Preston drawled.   
  
  
Ezra turned to Josiah, ignoring Preston's muttering. "Now Mister Sanchez, he was hired by the government. Funding can sometimes be…"  
  
  
"Before you finish that comment on quality versus the cost of my expertise, Mister Standish, I can assure you that your organization spared no expense…"  
  
  
Buck snorted. "He's gettin' 50 bucks an hour. 'S what Linda said."  
  
  
Ezra smiled and folded his hands into his lap. "And yet another great obscurity is elucidated. Please continue Doctor, if you've a mind to."   
  
  
"Why, so kind of you, Mister Standish," Preston grumbled sardonically. "Why don't we talk about grievances each of you may have then? I'm sure you'll have plenty."  
  
  
"About time. Your coffee sucks."  
  
  
"Your decorator should be shot."  
  
  
"You need better reading material in the office."  
  
  
"Linda's clingy."  
  
  
"Your TV reception sucks."  
  
  
Preston sighed. "NO! Not grievances with the premises, gentlemen. I meant with each other."  
  
  
"Vin's coffee sucks."  
  
  
"Mister Wilmington's decorator should be shot."  
  
  
"JD needs better reading material."  
  
  
"Mary's clingy."  
  
  
"Josiah's reception sucks."  
  
  
Preston bit the inside of his cheek. "Yes, very amusing, all of you. Now that that's out of   
everyone's system, are we ready for some real work? Or should I just give up and write down "insane" as my diagnosis?"  
  
  
Everyone looked incredulously at him. "Ya mean ya coulda done that Monday mornin' and we coulda been out of here?!" Vin asked, annoyed. "Why didn't ya just say so?"  
  
  
"Forgive me, but I guess I just assumed that people would generally be offended at being called insane just after I had met them."  
  
  
"Oh, so you're conservative about the 'insane' thing but everything **else** you say can be a biased, judgmental remark?"   
  
  
"I am not biased, Mister Jackson," Preston retaliated, rather indignantly.  
  
  
"Now you're biased against your own bias. What kind of a man are you? You make racist remarks to me the other day, you judge my teammates, and then you have the gall to tell me you aren't judgmental?"  
  
  
"Please, Mister Jackson, we're getting off track."  
  
  
"So you change the subject. These sessions haven't had a track every day we've been here, but now you make the excuse that we had one all along."  
  
  
"Maybe we did," Preston ventured. "This could all be a complex attempt at learning about each of you that none of you know about."  
  
  
"So now you're calling us ignorant again. You think we don't know what you're doing to us? You're implying that if you were doing something right in front of us, that we wouldn't even know it was happening."  
  
  
"I'm just saying, it could be that I'm doing something to analyze you gentlemen right now but none of you are quite qualified enough to acknowledge it."  
  
  
"What about Josiah? He's spent more years studying people than you've been alive! Not only are you unfairly judging him, you're disrespecting his age and his knowledge, undermining his experience with your own, just because you specialize in talking to loonies for a living."  
  
  
Preston decided to turn the tables on Nathan and play the word game with the chemist. "So you're admitting that your team is full of loonies, Mister Jackson?"  
  
  
"Shouldn't you already **know** if we are or not, Mister Expert-Psychologist?"   
  
  
Preston sputtered. "Mister Jackson, I'm just allowing for some possibilities here. You don't have to come to personal attacks. I would expect this perhaps from Mister Standish, but not from you."  
  
  
"Oh, so you're saying I'm better than Ezra?"  
  
  
JD snickered. "That's a band." Everyone ignored Dunne.   
  
  
"No, I'm not saying you're better than Ezra. I'm just saying that it's in your characters to be different in that sense."  
  
  
"You don't even KNOW Ezra's character. Who are you to be talking about Ezra's character in the first place? He's an undercover agent. Maybe he's just bullshitting you about everything. Maybe he's the most noble, honest person any of us know."  
  
  
Preston looked skeptical. "Do you really think I'm going to…"  
  
  
"I don't care if you believe it or not, it's still not your right to judge either way. You don't know him. You haven't worked with him for as long as any of us have, and whether you're a psychologist or not doesn't matter."  
  
  
Throughout Nathan's rant, JD looked at his watch. Leaning over towards Chris, the youngest agent motioned to the face of his wrist. "Can I run to the vending machine? If I did my math right, Nate's gonna be going for another ten minutes."  
  
  
Chris nodded but stopped the kid before he could leave. Pulling out his wallet, the team leader yanked a dollar and put it into Dunne's hands. "I want HoHos."   
  
  
Buck also tossed a dollar at the kid. "Twinkies."   
  
  
"Tater Chips."  
  
  
"Snickers."  
  
  
"Gardettos."  
  
  
Nathan paused from his yelling at Doctor Preston to look at JD. "Chocolate chip cookies." He turned back and resumed right where he'd left off, to the very word. "And another thing, what's your sick obsession with slandering Ezra's personality? You're completely unqualified compared to any one of us to do anything of the sort…"   
  
  
**Ten Minutes Later**  
  
  
"Nate?"  
  
  
Jackson paused in his rant. "Yeah, Chris?"  
  
  
"You want your cookies now or what?"  
  
  
"Oh. Yeah."  
  
  
Larabee tossed his agent the package of Famous Amos. "Sit. Eat."  
  
  
The chemist caught the bag and plopped back into his seat, the lecture to Doctor Preston completely forgotten.   
  
  
"Ah…yes, I was saying…what was I saying?"  
  
  
"You were being judgmental and narrow minded," JD piped up.  
  
  
Upon hearing the kid's statement, Nathan sat a little higher in his seat and put a finger in the air, as if he were going to say something to the doctor again.  
  
  
"Nathan…eat now," Chris instructed, soothingly. Preston wondered how Larabee had gone from growling to relaxing within a fifteen-minute time slot.   
  
  
Jackson leaned back into his chair and popped another cookie in his mouth upon instruction.   
  
  
"Er… I was asking a question. How about, Mister Wilmington?"  
  
  
"What about me?"  
  
  
"Uh…" Preston adjusted his glasses and looked at some of his notes. "Tell me about something that one of your teammates has done to you that's hurt you lately."  
  
  
Buck snorted and leaned back in his chair. "Chris."  
  
  
"And what did Chris do?" the psychologist urged.   
  
  
"What do you mean what did he do? You were right here when he did it! Smacked me upside the head only like, six times."  
  
  
"What do you mean… oh… on Monday? That's not what I meant when I said hurt you."  
  
  
"Well, it hurt."  
  
  
"I meant emotionally."  
  
  
Buck suddenly turned apprehensive about sharing his grievances. "You mean like, **emotional** emotionally? The touchy-feely type honest "I feel like…" type?"   
  
  
"Erm…yes."  
  
  
Buck made a face. "Like, make me wanna cry and express myself, emotionally?"  
  
  
"Well, perhaps, though there's a plethora of other feelings that are tied to emotional hurt."  
  
  
Buck's brow's knitted. "So you want me to tell one of the guys he's hurt me emotionally lately?"  
  
  
"Yes."  
  
  
"What if they haven't?"  
  
  
"Of course they have! Humans that work in an environment like you seven do that sort of thing to each other on a daily basis. No matter how small the occurrence, it undoubtedly happens."  
  
  
"Uhm… Vin flipped me the bird on the way down here."  
  
  
"Yes? And how did that make you feel?"  
  
  
"Like flippin' him back."  
  
  
"So it made you feel retaliatory?"  
  
  
"Sure."  
  
  
"Are you always like that?"  
  
  
"Like what?"  
  
  
"Do you always feel the need to get back at someone who gets you for something?"  
  
  
"Hey, if someone flips me off I do it right back, doc."  
  
  
"So you are."  
  
  
"Sure."  
  
  
"So if I were to say, kick you in the ribs, you'd kick me back?"  
  
  
"Now why in the holy heck would you wanna kick me in the ribs?"  
  
  
"It was a hypothetical question."  
  
  
"So it's not a real situation."  
  
  
"Yes."  
  
  
"It is?"  
  
  
"No, it is NOT a real situation. It's just a proposed scenario, Buck."  
  
  
"So you don't really want to kick me in the ribs?"  
  
  
Preston sighed. "No, Mister Wilmington, I really don't."  
  
  
"So then I don't want to kick you in the ribs, either."  
  
  
"That's not what I'm asking, Buck. I'm asking you that if I **were** to kick you in the ribs, would you kick me back automatically?"  
  
  
"Not if he was on the floor holding his chest and yellin', "why the hell did you kick me in   
the ribs?!" or somethin' like that," JD offered by way of explanation.  
  
  
"Well, it's not a question of whether he could or couldn't kick me right after I kicked him, but rather a question of whether he would or not."  
  
  
"What's the point of would or wouldn't if he can't?" JD questioned, looking at Josiah.  
  
  
The preacher's son shrugged. "Beats me."  
  
  
"It's just a hypothetical scenario! I wouldn't really kick Buck in the ribs," Preston sighed. "But, let's say that I did…"  
  
  
"So you WOULD kick Buck in the ribs?" JD asked; his face scrunched up into a giant question mark.  
  
  
"No! But if I'm asking him what he would do if I did."  
  
  
"If you wouldn't, why are you saying what would happen if you did?"  
  
  
"It's a hypo…"  
  
  
"Yes, Doctor, we understand that portion. I think my compatriots were actually wondering about the situations pertinence if it was as you say, unfathomable, in the first place."   
  
  
"It has pertinence to the exercise."  
  
  
"But not to the original question."  
  
  
"I don't even remember the original question," Preston sighed wearily.  
  
  
"Then what's the point of keepin' up with **this** question?" JD pushed, impatient.   
  
  
"It was relevant to the original question."  
  
  
Josiah quirked a brow. "Which was?"  
  
  
"Which was… erm… whether or not Buck has a need to retaliate, no matter the smallness of the offending gesture."  
  
  
Chris sighed. "Yes."  
  
  
"Excuse me, Mister Larabee?"  
  
  
"Yes, Buck has to get back at every goddamned son of a bitch that looks at him the wrong way."  
  
  
"Are you being serious with me, Mister Larabee? This isn't just an answer you're giving me so we can move on, is it?"  
  
  
Chris narrowed his eyes. "You figure it out. I'm not the one getting paid fifty bucks an hour to sort this shit out."  
  
  
Preston frowned. "Mister Larabee, has it ever occurred to you that your foul demeanor might be caused by undue stress?"  
  
  
"Occurred to me?" Chris's eye grew large. "What the fuck kind of stupid question was that? Undue stress? Look around!!!" His arm swept left to right, across the faces of 6 rather bored looking agents.   
  
  
The doctor flinched slightly at Chris's incredulous tone. "Well, yes, I'll have to agree that your men are somewhat high maintenance, but I was wondering as to the way you might try to relieve some of your excess stress? It would calm you down considerably if you did it right, I imagine."  
  
  
"Relief?"  
  
  
Preston nodded. "Some people play sports on the weekend, or do a hobby to relax, a sort of way to channel their rage and frustration into something productive. And when they're really furious, some of them write, or count to ten, or hit a pillow, or scream."  
  
  
"Oh, Chris screams a lot," Vin chimed in.   
  
  
"Well, um, good. It's healthy. What else do you do, Mister Larabee?"  
  
  
Chris looked genuinely thoughtful. "Besides scream?"  
  
  
Preston nodded.   
  
  
Chris reached into the inside of his coat jacket. The six ATF agents simultaneously ducked and covered their heads. "Oh God, he's going to get a gun?!" Preston yelped jumping behind his seat, cowering.   
  
  
"No! Worse!!" JD yelped.   
  
  
"He's gonna play!!" Vin griped, the brim of his hat pulled over his ears disdainfully.   
  
  
Preston's head poked up from behind the arm of his chair. "Play?"  
  
  
"This is your fault, Junior! You gave him that Goddamn thing!!" Buck growled, glaring at Tanner.   
  
  
"It was a gag gift! He weren't really supposed to play it!!"  
  
  
Preston looked at Larabee, who had a shiny new harmonica in hand, and looked prepared to start a small impromptu performance. Which consisted of random blowing against any part of the grid his lips happened to touch.  
  
  
"Who has a gun? Someone gimme a gun!" Vin pleaded.  
  
  
Though the doctor had to agree that Larabee's playing was rather off center, he considered shooting Larabee as a bit of overreaction. "Mister Tanner? Why do you want to shoot Mister Larabee?"  
  
  
"I don't," Vin responded, cringing as another string of random notes screeched across the room.  
  
  
"You don't?"  
  
  
"I wanna shoot **myself**," Tanner ground out, hands clamped on either side of his ears, the perfect picture of tormented agony.   
  
  
Nathan, hands over ears in a similar fashion, glared at Preston. "Why'd you instantly assume Vin was gonna murder Chris!?" he yelled over the din.  
  
  
"Well, he was asking for a gun!"  
  
  
"So you automatically think he'd shoot one of us before he'd shoot himself!"  
  
  
"Well, it seemed that was the purpose of his wanting a gun!"  
  
  
"So you think Vin's a murderer!"  
  
  
"I don't! I just assumed he would want to destroy the source of his apparent agony!"  
  
  
Josiah chortled. "Doctor, if we were like that, all of us would be dead and in the arms of the Lord…" he stopped. "Well, most of us…"   
  
  
"So you think that some of your teammates will go to hell?!" Preston shouted over the cacophony.   
  
  
The preacher's son, hands clamped firmly over his ears, let out a wry smile. "I'm sayin' they'd take it over…"   
  
  
"Hell?!"  
  
  
"Run the devil right out!"  
  
  
"You're telling me that you're of the belief that your team has the potential to run hell!"  
  
  
"Look around Doctor. Imagine an eternity of this…"   
  
  
Preston choked a little at the thought, raising his voice to be heard over the sour notes of the harmonica. "Yes well, I still find it hard to believe that your teammates would give Lucifer himself a run for his money! Care to explain to me as to why you believe your teammates are hell-bound?!"  
  
  
Josiah, cringing at another off key whistle keened by a very self-satisfied looking Larabee, looked at Preston. "You must have an awful lot of faith son, if you don't think some of us are goin' to the fiery pit!"  
  
  
"I'm suspending my own disbelief for a moment in order to ask you a question, Mister Sanchez. What have your teammates done to warrant a trip to hell, in your opinion?!"  
  
  
"Didn't say it was my opinion, just popular credence, is all!" Josiah defended, looking slightly insulted.  
  
  
"So other people think you're going to hell?! Like who?!"  
  
  
Sanchez looked thoughtful. "Teams 1-6 and 9-12!"  
  
  
"So you're implying that the other teams you boys have to work with don't get along with you well?!"  
  
  
"We get along with Kelly's team!" JD protested.  
  
  
"They give us beer, sometimes!" Buck explained to Preston, shuddering when Chris took another deep breath and set into his music making with much gusto.   
  
  
"So the only reason you get along with your coworkers is the fact that they provide alcoholic beverages!?"  
  
  
Buck scowled. "What's wrong with alcohol?!"  
  
  
Preston's eyebrow arched. "Besides the fact that it's a strain on one's internal systems and causes slow-wittedness, and vomiting and in my opinion, tastes rather foul?!"  
  
  
Chris abruptly stopped playing. The other agents sighed in relief when he shoved the instrument back inside his coat pocket. "What?" the black clad leader asked, voice clearly annoyed.  
  
  
"We were just talking about alcohol, Mister Larabee. It seems your team resorts to it when the usual social graces fail them."  
  
  
Larabee's eyes narrowed. "What's wrong with beer?"  
  
  
"Erm…nothing, I suppose," Preston began, growing slightly nervous at the look in the   
agent's eye. "I'm just concerned about your team's apparent inability to coexist with the other teams without the use of drink."  
  
  
"Where the hell did you get that?" Nathan interrupted, eyes flaring. "We lack social graces? What, you assume because our team occasionally likes to partake with Kelly's team that we're all a bunch of drunks that couldn't function without a bottle in our hand?!"  
  
  
Chris's eyes became thin slits, turning flinty. "What's wrong with beer?" he repeated.  
  
  
"No, I didn't mean it that way. It was just my personal opinion on alcohol as a whole."  
  
  
JD snorted. "It even legal for you to have alcohol?"  
  
  
"I am 25 years old, Mister Dunne, quite past the legal drinking age if I recall. Now can we please try to stay on topic? I want to further address this team's dependency on alcohol. "  
  
  
"We're not dependant!" Buck protested.   
  
  
Chris still looked troubled. "What's wrong with beer?"  
  
  
"Well, one would think that you'd be able to get along with the other teams in your bureau without having alcohol present as a dampener."  
  
  
"So you're saying we have a problem if we drink to get along with our coworkers?" Nathan asked, eyes narrowed.   
  
  
"Well, basically, yes. I don't see how it's a bad assumption."  
  
  
The chemist's nostrils flared. "You haven't even **met** the other teams!! They're bigger asses than Ezra!!! They'd drive YOU to drink too!! Why do you automatically assume everything's our fault?"   
  
  
Preston blinked. "I um…well, I guess I didn't think of that. Why don't you tell me about people you find objectionable in your facility of work, then Agent Jackson?"  
  
  
Nathan crossed his arms defiantly across his chest. "Ain't for me to say." He smirked, an Ezra-like twist of his lips upward. "See how easy it is? Why don't you try it, Doc?"  
  
  
Chris continued to mutter under his breath. "I like beer."  
  
  
"Mister Larabee, we've asserted that perhaps beer isn't as evil as I'd first inclined. Can we move on before we're out of time?"  
  
  
"Actually, according to my count, we're out of time now, doctor Preston," Ezra intoned, flashing his sharp silver Rolex.   
  
  
Preston sputtered. "But we were just gaining ground! I want to know about the role of alcohol in your daily routines!"  
  
  
Chris's growl rivaled that of a race car engine. "I like beer."  
  
  
Preston shrunk back.   
  
  
Buck, smirking, and seemingly nonplussed at his friend's display of criminal-esque insanity, clapped a hand on the team leader's shoulder amiable. "C'mon pard. I'll buy you a Bud. How's that? You like Bud, right?"  
  
  
The low rumblings in Larabee's throat stopped. "Coors?"  
  
  
"Sure, Chris, whatever you want."   
  
  
There came a happy sound from somewhere inside the black clad man.   
  
  
Preston jotted down more notes while the men left. After a second, he put his pencil down. He really felt like a beer now.   
  
  
He chuckled a little insanely to himself. "They've driven me to drink!!!!" 


End file.
